The Bastard of Winterfell
by PrettyPoppy
Summary: After being convicted of Joffrey's murder, Tyrion Lannister escapes King's Landing and spends the next five years in exile. When he finally returns to Westeros, he discovers that there is a new Lord of Winterfell, a little boy named Eddard Lannister. Although Sansa swears the child is his, Tyrion is too jaded to believe it, even though he once spent the night in Sansa's bed.
1. Prologue

Title: The Bastard of Winterfell

Author: PrettyPoppy

Summary: After being convicted of Joffrey's murder, Tyrion Lannister escapes King's Landing and spends the next five years in exile. When he finally returns to Westeros, he discovers that there is a new Lord of Winterfell, a little boy named Eddard Lannister. Although Sansa swears the child is his, Tyrion is too jaded to believe it, even though he once spent the night in Sansa's bed.

Author's Notes: This story begins all the way back in Season Three, but after the prologue, there will be a considerable time jump. Also, this story is canon-divergent. In this version, Sansa is never sold to the Boltons and Tyrion never meets Daenerys.

Although the first draft of this fic is complete, it still needs a lot of work, so I will be posting as I edit. Right now, I don't have a set posting schedule. I will simply update this fic whenever I can. The first draft has 32 chapters and is about 125k words long, though all of that may change as I work through the editing process.

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Prologue

Sansa Stark paced the floor in the bedchamber she shared with her new husband, wringing her hands and trying desperately not to panic. The hour was late, and she knew that Tyrion would return to their chamber soon. She had endured a particularly trying day, and she wasn't at all prepared for what she knew she must do as soon as her husband returned.

The day had started like any other. Sansa and Tyrion had broken their fast in their own chamber, and then, Tyrion had gone off to do small council business. Sansa had gotten dressed and joined Margaery Tyrell for a turn around the garden. It had all been quite ordinary and mundane until . . . until . . . Joffrey had found her, just as she'd been making her way back to her rooms for the afternoon meal.

He'd cornered Sansa in a deserted hallway, pushed her up against the wall, and viciously groped her while whispering threats against her ear. Sansa had been unable to do anything but stand there trembling in fear. Had Margaery not suddenly come upon them, Joffrey might have made good on his threats right then and there. As it was, he'd been forced to remove his hands from her person and pretend that he'd just been leaning in to tell her a secret joke about his uncle.

Of course, Margaery hadn't believed a single word, but she'd played along just fine. She'd sidled up to Joffrey, wrapped her arm around his, and led him off in the opposite direction, leaving Sansa free to make her escape.

Sansa had made a mad dash for her room, slamming the door behind her and locking it. She'd spent the rest of the day hiding in her bedchamber, trying to decide what to do about Joffrey's threats.

Even now, she could still hear his words inside her head. _You like it when I touch you, don't you?_ _Wait till I put myself inside you. I'm going to make you scream._

Sansa shuddered at the memory, and she stopped dead still. She stared at the door, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling. She could still feel Joffrey's hands upon her, his fingers biting into her breast, his hand trailing up her thigh. Nothing would make the feeling go away. Nothing.

More words flooded her brain as she stood there lost in her own memory_. If my uncle can't put a baby in you, I'm going to do it for him. No woman should still be a virgin weeks after her wedding night. Don't worry, my dear Aunt Sansa, I will take care of you, even though my uncle can't._

Suddenly, the door handle rattled, and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. She watched as someone tried to push the door open, but of course, it wouldn't budge because it was still locked.

Had Sansa been capable of speech, she would have asked who it was, but she was too terrified to even draw breath. It wasn't until she heard Tyrion swear that she knew who was behind the door.

"Sansa, are you in there? Open the door."

In a great burst of relief, Sansa rushed forward, struggling to unlock the door with numb fingers. Eventually, she got it open and stood back so that Tyrion could enter.

As he stepped inside, he looked up at her and instantly asked, "What's wrong?"

Sansa shook her head, determined to pretend that she was perfectly fine. "Nothing, my lord," she said, both her voice and her manner belying her words.

"Nothing?" Tyrion raised a skeptical brow as he turned and closed the door behind him. Then, he locked it for good measure, something he'd never done before. When he turned back around, his eyes met hers once more. "Would you like to try that again?"

"No, my lord."

Tyrion scowled. He meandered into the room, heading straight for the flagon of wine on the table in the center of the chamber. "You weren't at dinner," he said as he poured himself a glass. "Is there a reason?"

"I wasn't hungry."

Tyrion laughed, the sound short and bitter. "Of course." He took a sip of the wine and then turned and eyed her thoughtfully. "Have you, by any chance, seen my nephew today?"

Sansa looked away, suddenly unable to meet Tyrion's gaze. She wanted to deny that her current state had anything to do with Joffrey, but she wasn't a particularly good liar, especially when she was in such distress.

"I see," Tyrion said. He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, he asked, "Did he hurt you?"

Sansa shook her head again. She still couldn't face Tyrion.

She heard him put his glass down on the table. "Sansa, look at me, please."

It took all her willpower to do as he asked. When she did, she found him staring up at her with deep concern.

"I know you think you can't trust me," Tyrion said. "I know you think you're alone in this. But you are my wife, Sansa, and nothing could be further from the truth. I am your lord husband, and I am sworn to protect you, even against my own family. Even against the king. I would never let any harm come to you. I swear it. By the old gods and the new. If Joffrey has done something to you, you must tell me so that I know how to protect you and I know how much of his cock to have Ser Bronn cut off."

A nervous laugh escaped Sansa's throat at the thought of Joffrey losing his manhood, but she suppressed it as quickly as she could.

"Ah, that's better," Tyrion said, his expression lightening. "Now, will you please tell me what happened? I don't make idle promises or idle threats. If Joffrey has hurt you, he will pay the price."

Sansa studied her husband for a long moment. There were very few people in her life she could trust anymore. She trusted Shae, of course, even though Shae had warned her not to. And she trusted Margaery, although she didn't always quite understand Margaery's motives. And then, there was Littlefinger, but Littlefinger was far from the Red Keep at the moment, and so, she could no longer rely on him. And that was it. The only people she trusted in all of King's Landing. Did she dare add her husband to the list?

"Well?" Tyrion prompted when she didn't answer. "I promise, I'm not going to judge you or punish you for telling me the truth. I just want to know what that bastard did so that I know what to do to him."

The idea of someone, anyone, inflicting punishment on Joffrey was simply too tempting for Sansa to ignore. She'd seen Tyrion stand up to his nephew once before, the day Joffrey had commanded that she be stripped and beaten before the Iron Throne, and she knew he could stand up to him again.

"He . . . the king . . . he . . ."

"Yes?" Tyrion asked, his attention keenly focused on Sansa.

"He came upon me in the corridor as I was returning to my room for the afternoon meal. He pushed me up against the wall and . . ." The words died in her throat. They were so very hard to say. Not just because Joffrey was king. Not just because accusing him of assault was treason. But because Sansa was still reeling from what he had done to her and just speaking the words made it all feel real again.

"Go on," Tyrion said softly. "You're doing fine."

Sansa inhaled a steadying breath and forced herself to continue. "He groped me, and he threatened me. He said if you were not going to put a baby inside me, he would do it himself."

Tyrion's eyes darkened, and his jaw clenched. Sansa could see that he was angry, but whether he was angry with Joffrey or angry with her, she didn't quite know. Could he have been lying to her? Had he told her that he would protect her just to get her to confess the truth? Sansa's heart thudded against her ribs as she waited for him to speak.

"What stopped him?" Tyrion asked, his voice painfully tight. "What stopped him from making good on his threat?"

"Margaery Tyrell came upon us and stopped him before he could go any further. She led him toward the gardens, and I locked myself in here. I haven't opened the door since then."

Tyrion nodded slowly, as if he was taking his time absorbing and analyzing every last word she had said. Sansa waited for him to speak, her breath caught in her throat. It took him longer than she would have liked. By the time he opened his mouth again, she thought she might faint.

"I'm going to assign you a personal guard," Tyrion said, then quickly thought better of it. "Better make that two guards. From now on, you will not go anywhere alone, and that door," he pointed to it with a fierceness that belied his calm, "that door stays locked at all times. Understood?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. It was so weak, in fact, that it almost sounded like a sob.

"Oh, Sansa," Tyrion said, instinctively moving toward her, "please, don't cry."

"I'm not crying," she said, forcing a strength into her voice that she simply didn't feel.

Tyrion stopped, leaving a considerable distance between them. He looked as if he wanted to reach out to her, to take her hands, to offer her comfort, but he didn't. And Sansa was glad. She wasn't ready to take comfort from a Lannister just yet, not even her husband. She had yet to reach that level of desperation.

"I am going to protect you," Tyrion said. "Joffrey may be king, but my father keeps him on a tight leash. I will speak with him about this, and I will make sure that Joffrey never bothers you again."

"Are you certain Lord Tywin won't agree with him?"

"What?" Tyrion seemed surprised by the question.

"You've said from the beginning that your father commanded you to consummate this marriage. Are you sure that he won't simply side with Joffrey? Does Lord Tywin care who puts a baby inside me as long as it's a Lannister?"

Tyrion's gaze grew hard, and again, Sansa wondered if he was angry with her or if his fury was directed at someone else.

Suddenly, he tore his eyes away from her and stared out into the room. "Fuck," he swore violently.

Sansa wasn't used to swearing, though she already knew that Tyrion was quite fond of it. She didn't know what had caused the sudden outburst, but she knew it couldn't be anything good.

It was a long time before Tyrion looked at her again. When he did, there was a clarity in his gaze, a resignation, that made her skin flush cold.

"I wish I could tell you that you're wrong," Tyrion said. "I'd love nothing more than to tell you a fairytale, than to tell you that my father will protect your virtue at all costs. But that would be a lie, and I can't lie to you, Sansa. You're my wife, and I would never lie to you."

"Then what can we do?" Sansa asked, afraid she already knew the answer. "I don't want Joffrey to ever touch me again. I would do anything to keep that from happening. Anything."

There was promise in her words, challenge, defeat. It was all there. All Tyrion had to do was take advantage of it. Sansa didn't want to lie with him, she truly didn't, but she feared the alternative more than she feared going to her husband's bed.

"Sansa." The word was a sigh on his lips. "You don't want to know what we should do."

"Tell me anyway," she replied, her voice hard, steadfast.

Tyrion's bottom lip quivered as he fought with himself, trying to form the words but failing. "I can't."

"Try."

Tyrion sighed heavily, and Sansa could see the disgust in his eyes. "The only way to make sure that Joffrey can't steal your virtue is for you to surrender it to someone else. And, as I am your husband—"

He couldn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Sansa already knew what he'd been going to say.

"I would have to surrender it to you."

Tyrion nodded, not a single word passing his lips. It was as if the most loquacious man in all of Westeros had suddenly gone mute, rendered speechless by the thought of bedding his wife.

"And there's no other way to ensure that he won't rape me?" she asked, hoping beyond hope that Tyrion's agile mind might be able to think of some preferable alternative.

"Even if you surrender yourself to me," Tyrion croaked, "nothing can ensure that he will never rape you, except, perhaps, his much-longed-for death."

"But if you bed me?"

"It might put it off indefinitely. If my father knew that our marriage had been consummated, he might be more inclined to keep Joffrey away. But it is no guarantee."

Sansa chewed the inside of her bottom lip, weighing her options carefully. Even though she was married to Tyrion, she was still holding out hope that Robb would come and rescue her, that he'd break down the walls of the Red Keep and carry her away long before she'd ever have to lie with Tyrion Lannister. Then, the marriage might be annulled, and she'd be free to find true love, just as she'd always longed for. Giving herself to Tyrion now would shatter that dream forever, and Sansa wasn't sure she was quite prepared for that. However, the alternative was much worse, and so she warred with herself, uncertain of where her heart and her fear would lead her.

Although she barely knew Tyrion, he had always been kind to her. He had never once mistreated her or struck out at her in anger. He was always kind, patient, understanding. If she went to his bed, she knew there was a chance that he would be just as kind, patient, and understanding there as he was during their walks in the garden or during their morning meals. Giving herself to Tyrion would be heartbreaking, yes, but it wouldn't be violent, it wouldn't be angry, she wouldn't be lying beneath him listening to him spit threats in her ear. He'd be gentle, he'd be considerate. She just knew he would. And even though it would make her ache in the deepest recesses of her soul, it would not destroy her the way being brutally raped by Joffrey would.

And so Sansa finally made her decision.

"I would rather be bedded by you than be raped by Joffrey," she said, the sound hollow in her throat.

Sansa's words hung between them, the air thick with tension. She knew there was no going back. She had made her wishes known, and now, she had no choice but to wait and see what Tyrion would do.

For the longest time, he did nothing but stare at her. He seemed to be just as much in shock as she was. As the silence dragged on, Sansa's anxiety rose like bile in her throat and she fought the urge to break down and cry.

Finally, Tyrion's words cut the silence. "And I would rather that you not give yourself to me out of fear. I told you on our wedding night that I would not share your bed until you want me to. Wanting me to share your bed because you think it's better than being raped by Joffrey is not exactly what I had in mind."

"And yet, that is the reason. The only reason. But I want it just the same."

Tyrion squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He scrunched up his face, as if he were in pain, before swearing softly. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Sansa again. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I am. If we continue to wait, Joffrey will use it as an excuse to rape me, and I can't let that happen."

"As I've already said, he may rape you anyway. You may be saving yourself nothing by giving yourself to me now."

"I will save myself the horror of having my maidenhood forcibly taken from me. It will be little consolation, of course, if Joffrey gets his way, but at least it will be something. At least, for once, I'm the one making the decision about what happens to me. Not you, not Lord Tywin, not Joffrey, but me. And that's about the best I can hope for right now, but it's enough."

There were tears in her eyes by the time she finished talking, but they didn't fall against her cheeks. Sansa held herself with all the dignity and grace she possessed. She had made a decision – her own decision, for herself – and she was determined to see it through till the end.

"Well?" Sansa asked as Tyrion continued to stare silently up at her.

"Well, . . . I suppose I have no choice but to give you what you want. But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Tyrion sighed, his shoulders slumping with the effort. "All right then. When do you want to do this?"

"Now," Sansa replied, without giving herself even a single moment to reconsider.

"Now?" There was an incredulity in his voice that surprised her.

"Yes, now. Right now. Tonight. Before he has another chance to get me alone. Before he makes things even worse in retribution for having been thwarted today."

Tyrion's eyes seemed to lose their focus as he looked about the room in disbelief. Eventually, his gaze settled on the bed, and Sansa watched him intently, curious to see how he intended to proceed.

"I . . . I suppose it would be best," he said, his eyes never leaving the bed, "if you were to get undressed and get beneath the covers before I join you. I'll dim the lights, if you like, so that it can all be done in the dark."

Sansa's eyes drifted toward the bed as she began to imagine the coming ordeal. She had always dreamed about going to her marriage bed with a man she loved. Her father had once promised to find her a husband who was brave and gentle and strong. That was the man Sansa had always fantasized about being with, but now, she was faced with reality, and reality couldn't have been more different. She didn't hate Tyrion, not really. But she didn't love him either, and she certainly didn't want him. She knew that what they were about to do wouldn't be pleasant, but it wouldn't be unbearable either. She was certain she could endure it, if only to save herself from a worse fate.

The time for talking was done. Without another word, Sansa moved across the room, stopping beside the bed and waiting for the light to fade. She heard Tyrion scrambling about behind her, moving from candle to candle, lamp to lamp, extinguishing each flame in turn. When it was finally dark enough for Sansa to feel comfortable, she began undressing.

Despite her firm resolve, her limbs shook with every movement and her fingers fumbled helplessly at the ties of her gown. She felt like she was reliving her wedding night all over again, only this time, Tyrion wouldn't stop her before she pulled off her shift. He wouldn't declare his intention to forgo his duty, and he wouldn't spend the night sleeping on the divan. No, he would allow her to undress completely, and then, he would join her in the bed and finally make her a woman. All because she feared Joffrey more than she feared her loveless marriage.

"Is everything all right?" Tyrion asked from somewhere behind her in the ever-darkening room.

"I'm fine," Sansa said, her voice quavering with the effort.

"If you've changed your mind—"

"I haven't. Please, finish with the lights."

Sansa turned her attention back to the ties at her waist, and Tyrion continued his work. She pursed her lips together, concentrating with all her might on the silken cord that held her gown together. A few more tries and she finally made purchase, pulling the knot loose and allowing the fabric to fall open.

Sansa shrugged out of her gown, laying it at the bottom of the bed. Then, she reached for one of the straps holding her shift in place and slowly slid it down her arm. The room behind her had grown quiet, but Sansa did her best to ignore it. Whether Tyrion was watching her or not made no difference. She was his wife, and her body belonged to him. If he wanted to watch her, then so be it.

With trembling fingers, Sansa reached up and pulled down the other strap. Then, summoning up all the courage she possessed, she pushed her shift down over her breasts and past her waist, finally allowing it to slip to the floor. For a moment, she just stood there, feeling the cool evening air caressing her naked flesh, wondering where Tyrion was and if he was excited by the sight of her or disgusted by it. Although instinct told her to dash beneath the bedclothes, she was too numb to even move.

"Are you undressed yet?" Tyrion asked, his voice sounding like a phantom's in the near-darkness.

Sansa was surprised that he didn't already know the answer to his own question. He must not have been watching her after all.

"Yes," she whispered, her throat too tight to form anything but a single syllable.

"Then get into bed. You don't want to catch cold."

Without turning around to look at him, Sansa pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. The room was not pitch-dark. Although all the lights had been extinguished, there was still a full moon outside that shone brightly through the unshuttered windows. It was enough light to see the soft outline of the curtains hanging around the bed, but not enough to detect the patterns in the fabric.

Sansa lay on her back, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her fingers clutching them tightly. She knew she had asked for this. She had no one to blame but herself. And Joffrey, of course. Tyrion wasn't coming to her because he wanted to hurt her. He was coming to her because she had asked him to, because she had convinced him to, and she could not fault him for that. No matter how much she wanted to. Despite the pounding of her heart, she wasn't about to be raped, she was about to consummate her marriage.

Sansa focused on the canopy above her as she listened to Tyrion preparing himself for bed. She wondered if he would come to her naked or if he would wear his shift. She hoped for the latter, of course, but it was a small, false hope, and she knew it.

Time seemed to stand still as Sansa waited. She counted the seconds with the beating of her own heart, and it felt like an eternity before Tyrion finally joined her. When he did, he moved up along the other side of the bed, pulled back the bedclothes, and climbed in beside her.

Sansa held her breath, waiting for Tyrion to move. Even though he was at least a foot away, she could feel the heat radiating off his body. She sensed rather than saw that he was completely naked, and the thought terrified her. She wondered if she should try to back out while she still had the chance. But she was certain that, even if she tried, Tyrion would demand that they continue. He was a man, after all, and she had led him this far. Men had needs that Sansa only barely understood, and she knew that sometimes they had difficulty controlling them. Why should Tyrion Lannister be any different?

"Sansa?" his voice came to her in the semi-darkness, soft and low and warm.

"Yes?"

"I know we've come this far, but I have to ask you, one more time, are you sure this is what you want? If you've changed your mind, there's no harm done. We can both just go to sleep and pretend this never happened."

Sansa was stunned silent. It was as if Tyrion had read her mind. He was offering her exactly what she was hoping for, an out, a reprieve, but she knew she couldn't take it. If she did, they'd just have to play out this same little scene the following night, because once she came back to her senses, she would still be desperate to do anything to foil Joffrey's plans, even give herself to Tyrion Lannister.

"No," Sansa said, forcing the word from her throat. "No, I want this. I want it done, and I want it done now. Please."

"As you wish."

Sansa's heart sank, and she closed her eyes, hiding herself in the darkness behind her closed lids, praying to all the gods, both old and new, that she would survive the coming night with as little suffering as possible. She waited for Tyrion to touch her. And waited and waited.

Finally, Sansa opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, catching her first glimpse of her husband beside her. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Tyrion was lying on his side, looking at her with eyes full of longing and regret. "I know this isn't what you want," he said. "I know you don't want me. I know you're only doing this because you feel you have to. But that doesn't mean it has to be torture for you. I don't want it to be torture for you. I want it to be pleasant, pleasurable even. I want to help you, Sansa. Please, let me help you."

"How?"

"Have you ever—?" he stopped as if searching for the right words. "Have you ever imagined what it would be like to lie with a man?"

Sansa's cheeks burned hotly, and she was thankful that Tyrion couldn't see the flush of her skin in the shadowy room. Of course, she had imagined what it would be like to lie with a man, more times than it was proper for a lady ever to admit. But she couldn't tell Tyrion that. What would he think of her if she told him the truth? He would accuse her of being a slut, no better than a common whore. She would not, she could not, admit to her husband that a single impure thought had ever raced through her mind. She simply could not disgrace herself in such a way, not even if her husband demanded it.

"I . . . I have never—"

"Sansa." Tyrion's voice was firm, almost commanding as he cut her off. "I want to help you. If I'm going to do that, we're going to have to be honest with each other."

"I am being honest," she said, her cheeks growing even hotter. "I have never imagined such a disgraceful thing in all my life."

Tyrion laughed. "And who said it was such a disgraceful thing? Your mother? Your septa? Somehow, I think that Catelyn Stark, of all people, finds nothing disgraceful about spending the night in her husband's bed. After all, she managed to give him five children. Had she found it that disgraceful, I'm sure she would have found a way out of it."

Sansa didn't like Tyrion talking about her parents, but he did have a point. Her mother had taught her not to be afraid of the marriage bed. She had told her about the pain, but also the joy. The problem was, in Sansa's mind, there could only ever be joy if there was also love. But without love, sharing her husband's bed was a duty to be endured, not a pleasure to rejoice in. And there was definitely no love between her and Tyrion. Their coupling was a duty, plain and simple. Nothing more.

"You shouldn't talk about my mother like that," Sansa said. "It's indecent."

Tyrion laughed again, though the sound was softer this time. "All right. My apologies to you and Lady Stark. Though I meant your dear mother no slight. She is a strong woman who knows her own mind, and she should be commended for that."

"Do you think we could get on with it?" Sansa asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The sooner they stopped talking, the sooner they could begin. And the sooner they began, the sooner it would be over with.

"Forgive me, my lady. I had no idea that you were so eager for me. I do not wish to keep you waiting."

Sansa wanted to scream. She was in no mood to be teased. But she held her tongue, careful not to give him yet one more reason to keep talking.

But he kept talking anyway. "If we are going to do this," Tyrion said, "then there's something I want you to do for me."

Sansa's heart lodged in her throat. "What . . . what is it?" she asked, the words barely discernable.

"I know you said that you've never imagined what it would be like to lie with a man, and while I would never doubt your word, I would like you to pretend for me that you have done just that."

"What? Why?" Sansa was thoroughly confused. So confused, in fact, that for a moment, she completely forgot to be nervous.

"I know I am not the husband of your dreams. But there must be someone in your past who you adored so fervently that you wanted to . . . marry him."

"Yes," Sansa scoffed, "Joffrey."

"Other than Joffrey."

Sansa thought for a moment. "Well, there was Ser Loras."

She thought she heard Tyrion choke. "Yes. Ser Loras. That will do. Have you ever imagined what it would be like to . . . be married to Ser Loras?"

"Of course. We were betrothed after all."

"Well, then, as much as it pains me to say this – for reasons I think you're a bit too inexperienced to understand – I want you to close your eyes and imagine that I am Ser Loras."

Sansa laughed. She hadn't imagined herself capable of laughing at that moment, but what Tyrion was suggesting was simply too absurd to respond any other way.

"I see you find that amusing," Tyrion said, not a hint of resentment in his tone.

"I'm sorry," Sansa replied, trying to hide the mirth in her voice. "I don't think it's amusing at all."

"In the dark, when your eyes are closed, I assure you, you will not be able to tell the difference between me and the Knight of Flowers."

"I mean no offense when I say this, my lord, but I sincerely doubt that."

"Then close your eyes and let me prove it."

There was more challenge than command in his tone, and Sansa was too proud to back down from a challenge. Especially a challenge issued by a Lannister.

She eyed Tyrion skeptically, and then, when she was certain he wasn't going to admit that he was bluffing, she turned her head on the pillow so she was once again facing the canopy above. Sansa held her breath for a moment before finally closing her eyes. She doubted Tyrion's assertion that she couldn't tell the difference between him and Loras Tyrell in the dark, and she looked forward to proving him wrong.

Sansa exhaled and settled herself into the mattress. When she was finally ready for him, she said, a smile in her voice, "All right, you may begin, . . . Ser Loras."

Sansa had expected Tyrion to close the distance between them immediately, but he didn't. Instead, she felt his hand skim her shoulder, and then, he picked up a stray lock of her hair and let it cascade over her skin, sending a sudden chill rippling down her arm. Although it was an unexpected feeling, it was not altogether unpleasant.

Tyrion paused then, and Sansa waited in breathless anticipation for him to continue. So far, he was right. She couldn't tell the difference between him and Loras Tyrell, but hardly anything had happened yet, and she knew that would soon change.

Eventually, Tyrion reached out again, this time trailing his fingertips up her left arm to graze her collarbone. His fingers against her flesh felt surprisingly soft, and it was easy for Sansa to pretend that there was a different man lying in bed beside her.

From her collarbone, he skimmed his way up along her neck, to tease the sensitive flesh behind her ear. Sansa's skin heated in response, and a soft sigh escaped her throat.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tyrion glided his fingers down along her flesh, retracing the path he had already tread. Then, when his fingertips reached her wrist, he started his journey upward again, this time, caressing the delicate skin along the inside of her arm, warming her blood even more.

Tyrion took his time tracing the lines of her body, exploring her flesh with just the pads of his fingertips, and nothing more. Not once did he touch anything but her arm and her neck and her cheek, but it didn't matter, because every caress felt like the sweetest sin, and Sansa could scarcely believe that it was Tyrion Lannister touching her so tenderly. The more he touched her, the more she burned, and soon, there was a longing deep inside her that she had only ever felt in her fantasies. She knew what it was, of course, but it was difficult for her to admit it, even to herself.

Sansa thought Tyrion might continue like that all night. After all, she knew that the moment he got on top of her, she'd be able to tell the difference between him and Ser Loras. There was no doubt about that. But Tyrion had other plans.

Sansa didn't feel him move closer. She was simply too enraptured by the sensation of his fingers gliding along her flesh. Without a word, without a warning, Tyrion leaned forward and kissed her neck.

Sansa gasped, and her eyes flashed open. She stared at the canopy above her in disbelief as Tyrion's lips moved against her skin. She flushed warmly all over, nowhere more so than between her legs, as he continued to kiss her, seemingly oblivious to her response.

Sansa's first instinct was to pull away. After all, Tyrion had overstepped his bounds. She wasn't ready for him to be kissing her yet. And yet . . . and yet . . . it felt so good. It felt more than good. Sansa had never felt anything so pleasurable in all her life, and all she wanted to do was drown in the feeling.

Slowly, Sansa's eyes drifted closed, and she succumbed to the pure ecstasy of Tyrion's kiss. Soon, his lips were blazing a warm trail down her neck and across her collarbone, then up again, along her throat and jawline. With each kiss, he moved closer to her lips, and Sansa wasn't sure if she wanted him to make contact there or not.

Sansa had never kissed Ser Loras. She had wanted to, but she never had. The only man she had ever kissed was Joffrey, and she still hated herself for it. She'd been such a little fool to fall in love with him. She wasn't a fool anymore, of course. But she still hated herself, just the same.

And now, Tyrion Lannister was about to kiss her, and instead of being horrified by the idea, Sansa was surprisingly intrigued. She could pretend all she wanted that it was Loras Tyrell in bed beside her, but the truth was, she was acutely aware that it was Tyrion Lannister. It was Tyrion who was making her blood sing, not Loras. And it was Tyrion whose lips were going to capture her own, if only he would move a little bit closer.

Tyrion's fingers stroked her neck as his lips continued their path upward. He kissed her cheek, her brow, her forehead.

Sansa moaned softly, desperate for him to finally kiss her lips. He was her husband after all. He had every right to kiss her properly, and she didn't understand what was taking him so long. If he was going to do it, he should just do it and be done with it. It was unfair of him to torture her so, and yet, he seemed in no hurry to end her torment.

Sansa gripped the bedsheets to keep herself from squirming against the mattress. Her fear had completely dissolved. Now, all she felt was impatience, impatience and need.

Sansa wanted to reach out and touch him, to put her hands on either side of his head and guide him to her lips. But she couldn't. She was no wanton. She was a lady. And she needed to act like one at all times, despite the urges welling up inside her.

Desperate to convince Tyrion to give her what she wanted, Sansa did the only thing she could do. She pleaded with him for mercy. "Tyrion, please." The words were little more than a whisper, but they were enough.

A moment later, Tyrion moved closer, so close that Sansa could feel the bare skin of his chest against her arm. And it wasn't the only thing she felt. There was a hardness pressing against her hip that she knew could be only one thing. Sansa's heart lurched in her chest, but she was too far gone to panic. There was something oddly thrilling about knowing that Tyrion's manhood was ready for her. Instead of frightening her, it heated her blood even more.

And then, suddenly, Tyrion was kissing her full on the lips.

Sansa sighed into his mouth, enraptured by the exquisite pleasure of Tyrion's kiss. His lips were soft, gentle, warm. He tasted like honeyed wine, and Sansa was desperate for more of him. His kiss was nothing like Joffrey's. It wasn't calculated or cold. It was passionate, fiery, real. Before Sansa knew what was happening, Tyrion dipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her, and instead of pulling away, she moaned again, reveling in the sweet invasion.

All thoughts of Loras Tyrell were suddenly gone. Now, all Sansa could think about was her husband, Tyrion Lannister, kissing her and touching her and leading her toward womanhood. Now, she had no fear, no regrets. Everything her mother had told her about the marriage bed was true. And although Sansa didn't love Tyrion, she knew he would protect her and cherish her and see her through this initiation with as much care and tenderness as possible.

Without conscious thought, Sansa's arms moved from her sides, and suddenly, her hands were in Tyrion's hair, pulling him closer. He groaned deep in the back of his throat, and Sansa knew he was pleased. She was glad he was pleased. He was doing her a kindness, and she wanted to return the favor. There was no point in pretending that she didn't want him, that she didn't enjoy what he was doing to her. Sansa didn't want to hold back. She wanted to be a good wife to Tyrion, even if it was only in the bedchamber.

Tyrion continued to kiss her until they were both breathless. When he finally broke the kiss, he pulled back just a little, and Sansa opened her eyes, her arms draped lazily about his neck. They stared at each other in the hazy darkness, so much unspoken between them. Sansa wanted to speak, but she couldn't. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for what he was doing, how much his kindness meant to her. But she couldn't. All she could do was reach up with tentative fingers and caress his cheek.

Tyrion closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, seemingly lost in the feel of her hand against his skin. His flesh was just as heated as hers, and she knew he wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

It took a great deal of courage, but Sansa leaned forward then and placed a gentle kiss against his lips. When she fell back against the pillow, she looked up at Tyrion again to find him staring back at her in silent wonder. She could tell that he wanted to speak, but she prayed he wouldn't. She feared that whatever he might say would break the spell she was under, and Sansa needed the spell to last. She needed to see this through till the end, while she was still enraptured by his touch.

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa shook her head, warning him against it. She slid her fingers into his hair again and drew him closer, kissing him softly. In an instant, she was lost again, so overcome by the feel of his touch and the feel of his kiss that she could barely think.

Soon, Tyrion's hands grew bolder. His fingers caressed her hips, her thighs, her stomach . . . her breasts. Sansa gasped as his fingertips grazed along one nipple and then the other, sending a spiral of heat straight to her sex.

Tyrion kissed her deeply, then pulled himself away. A small sob of protest escaped Sansa's throat, but there was nothing she could do to make him stay. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, and then lower, to the valley between her breasts.

Sansa held her breath as Tyrion explored her body with his hands and his mouth. He trailed a line of kisses up the side of one breast and then down the other. Then, without warning, he took one aching nipple into his mouth and sucked on it gently.

Sansa's eyes shot open, and she gasped in surprise. She couldn't believe how good it felt to have Tyrion suckle at her breast. It felt wicked and sinful, and oh so very right. Instinctively, Sansa's eyes drifted shut and her hands moved to the back of his head, drawing him even closer. She felt Tyrion smile against her breast, obviously pleased by her reaction.

Eventually, Tyrion pulled away, but only long enough to move to the other breast and lavish it with the same attention.

Sansa felt like she was going to melt into the mattress. Her skin was on fire, her womanhood burning with a desire she had never fully felt before. As much as she wanted Tyrion to continue touching her, she had an even stronger desire for him to push her legs apart and finally make her a woman. It amazed her that she could want Tyrion Lannister, of all people, so completely. But she did. There was something almost magical about his touch.

When Tyrion was done worshipping her breasts, he moved lower, trailing a path of soft kisses across her ribs and down her stomach. As he kissed her, his fingers also trailed southward, skimming along her thigh and then slipping between her legs.

Sansa's whole body stiffened as he made contact with her sex, causing Tyrion to quickly pull his hand away.

Sansa instantly regretted her reaction. She had wanted to see what would happen when he touched her, but her apprehension and inexperience had momentarily gotten the better of her, and she didn't know how to tell him that it was all right, that she wanted him to try again.

Tyrion rested his hand against her thigh, then began gliding it northward once more. Sansa looked down at him again. Without allowing herself a chance to overthink – her heart thrumming in her ears, the blood rushing to her cheeks – she reached for his hand, covering it with her own and guiding it toward her sex.

Tyrion lifted his head, his warm kisses ceasing that very instant. He stared up at her, the questioning in his gaze clearly visible even in the dim light.

Sansa nodded, wanting him to know that it was all right for him to continue, telling him, without words, what she wanted.

Tyrion smiled softly. Then, his eyes still focused on her face, he began to move his fingers between her legs.

Sansa fought the urge to tense again. She didn't want to do anything that might scare Tyrion away. So she kept her breath steady, her eyes locked with his, and watched him as he began to touch her in a way she had never even imagined possible.

Slowly, gently, Tyrion slid his fingers along her warmth, teasing, playing, seducing. He nudged her folds apart and ran a single finger along her length, and Sansa waited in breathless anticipation for him to push himself inside.

But he didn't.

No. Instead, he grazed his thumb against the very top of her sex, drawing small circles against a single, glorious spot hidden beneath her folds.

Sansa nearly cried out in ecstasy. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and she sank even deeper into the mattress, her entire body focused on the single spot where Tyrion was touching her.

Soon, he allowed his other fingers to touch her as well. He stroked along her entrance, while his thumb continued to drive her mad with pleasure.

It wasn't long before Sansa felt as if she was on the brink of something wonderful. She pushed herself firmly against his hand, begging him for something she couldn't even name. The instant she did, Tyrion backed away.

A strangled sob tore from Sansa's throat. She opened her eyes to look down at her husband, silently pleading with him to finish what he'd started. But she could tell by the look in his eyes that he had no intention of continuing.

"Please," she said, the sound so raw that the word was barely recognizable.

"Not yet," Tyrion whispered.

Sansa wanted to argue with him. She didn't understand what he was waiting for. But she held her tongue, simply because she couldn't catch her breath long enough to form a coherent sentence.

Tyrion put his hands on her knees and slowly urged them apart. Then, he climbed between them, and Sansa finally knew why it was that he had stopped. Even though she desperately wanted her pleasure, they were there for a much more important purpose. Tyrion needed to take her maidenhead before they finished, and it would be much easier for both of them if he did it while she still wanted him.

Tyrion positioned himself at her entrance. She could feel his heat against her skin. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "This is your last chance to turn back."

Sansa knew she wanted it, knew she wanted Tyrion. Suddenly, it had nothing to do with Joffrey anymore. She wanted her husband, she wanted Tyrion, inside her at that very moment.

"Yes," Sansa said, "please."

That was all the encouragement Tyrion needed. He nodded, then leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against her stomach. When he rose again, he locked his gaze with hers, and quickly thrust his hips forward, pushing into her in one swift movement.

Sansa cried out, resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. His entrance had been painful, but not as painful as she'd expected. He felt hot and heavy inside her, and she was surprised by just how big he was. She had expected his manhood to be particularly small since he was a dwarf, but that was certainly not the case.

"Are you all right?" Tyrion asked as he held himself still inside her, his hands resting on her hips.

Sansa nodded.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes. But the pain's gone now."

He smiled at her gently. "Good. Are you ready for me to continue?"

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, then nodded. She watched as Tyrion slowly began to move his hips. In an instant, her desire flared to life again, burning deep inside her. Sansa wanted to watch him, to stay present in the moment with him, but she couldn't. She was too overcome with sensation. Her eyes soon drifted closed, and all she could feel, all she could think about, was Tyrion moving inside her, driving her onward to some unknown paradise she was desperate to reach.

Foreign, animal sounds poured from her throat, matched in fervor only by the noises Tyrion was making. His movements started off slow, gentle, but soon, he was driving into her with considerable force, and Sansa was clutching the bedsheets with all her might, trying to meet him thrust for thrust. Suddenly, she wasn't a genteel young lady anymore. She was a direwolf hungry for release, hungry for her mate. Sansa pushed herself against him, urging him to penetrate her as deeply as he could, urging him to make her whole.

In no time at all, Tyrion worked her into a heated frenzy. Sansa's entire body was strung tight with anticipation, and she was certain she would break at any moment. A few more fevered thrusts, and suddenly, she crashed over the edge, screaming out Tyrion's name as every nerve in her body pulsed with pleasure.

Tyrion continued to move inside her, sending little shivers of ecstasy radiating from her womanhood as he desperately fought for his own release. Soon enough, a great roar tore from his throat, almost like a lion's, and he spilled his seed deep inside her.

Tyrion collapsed against Sansa, resting his head against her breasts. She was too tired to push him away, but even if she'd had the strength, she wouldn't have made him move. His weight was a welcome comfort. Without conscious thought, she wrapped her arms around his back and gently stroked the curls at the nape of his neck.

Sansa had never imagined that inviting Tyrion into her bed would feel like this. She had thought it would be an ordeal, a tragedy. But it was nothing of the sort. He was a kind and gentle lover, the kind of man poets wrote songs about. He knew how to touch a woman's body and her soul, and Sansa would be eternally grateful to him for what he'd given her that night. He had saved her from Joffrey, and he'd made at least one of her girlhood dreams come true.

Sansa could have stayed like that forever, but Tyrion had other ideas. When his breathing had finally returned to normal, he pulled himself away from her, climbing from between her legs and lying on his back beside her.

Sansa instantly felt bereft. She sat up, reaching down to grab for the covers which had somehow found their way to the bottom of the bed during their encounter. She covered herself to her chin, and then lay back against the mattress, missing Tyrion's warmth and wishing he was still in her arms.

Tyrion reached for the corner of the blanket, pulling it over himself so that they were both now lying naked beneath it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the canopy. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice sounding warm and small in the near-darkness.

"Yes," Sansa replied, hugging herself tightly.

"I'm glad. I'm glad that you're safe, and I'm glad that you let me love you properly. Thank you, Sansa. You've given me a gift, and I won't forget it."

Sansa was startled by his words, almost baffled by them. He was the one who had given her something, not the other way around. Yes, she had surrendered her maidenhead to him, but as her husband, he had already been entitled to it, so she'd hardly given him anything. She wanted to thank him for what he'd done for her, but he didn't give her the chance.

"Good night, Sansa," Tyrion said before she could utter another word. He turned on his side, giving her his back and effectively putting an end to the conversation.

Sansa stared at Tyrion's back for the longest time, wondering if she should try to talk to him. There was so much she wanted to say, but she simply didn't have the words. Although Sansa had discussed such matters with other women – her mother, Septa Mordane, Margaery Tyrell – she had never talked to a man about such things, and she didn't know how to broach the subject. She wished, more than anything, that Tyrion would just turn around and crawl into her arms again. It had been so long since she'd held anyone in her arms, so long since anyone had held her, and she was desperate for the contact.

But she couldn't ask him to come to her. She simply couldn't. He had done her a kindness, that was all. Their relationship had not suddenly changed because of it. They were still strangers forced into a marriage that neither one of them wanted. Just because they had found pleasure in each other's arms, didn't mean that they now had feelings for each other. Sex was sex, not love. And Sansa Stark was wise enough to know the difference. It didn't matter that her heart still beat wildly from the memory of Tyrion's touch or that her soul ached a little with want of him. It wasn't love. It was lust, plain and simple. And Sansa knew she must do her best to remember that.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: And now, here we are at Chapter One, five years after Tyrion escaped King's Landing.

* * *

Chapter One

The fog was thick as the ship moved closer to the shore, but that didn't keep Tyrion Lannister from standing on deck and watching the city lights glisten through the haze. The first proof he saw that he'd truly reached King's Landing was the Red Keep, its towers spiraling above the landscape like a castle in the clouds. His gut clenched involuntarily at the sight of it, a flood of dark memories drowning his soul. He had spent the past five years trying to forget all of it, and he'd thought he had. But a single glance at the Red Keep and it all came back to him. Every slight, every pain, every terror. Tywin Lannister was dead now – Tyrion had made sure of that himself – and so were Cersei and Joffrey. There was no longer anyone in the Red Keep who had a personal reason to hate him, and yet, he despised the place just the same. He had no intention of ever going back there, no matter who sat on the Iron Throne.

Jon Snow.

Tyrion almost laughed. If someone had told him on his first trip to Winterfell that the young bastard would one day be king of the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion would have died laughing. The boy had been impossibly green then. Overly sensitive, inexperienced, the last boy in the world one would imagine becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, much less the King of Westeros.

And yet he had.

A lot had changed since Tyrion had last seen the shores of his homeland. His sister was dead, Daenerys Targaryen was dead, and her dragons with her. Now, Jon Snow – or more precisely, Aegon Targaryen – sat on the throne. Rumor had it that his love for the Dragon Queen had burned quite brightly until he'd been forced to end her life, sacrificing the woman he loved to defeat the Night King. The second coming of Azor Ahai some called it, but Tyrion had his doubts. Either way, the war was over. Jon had executed Cersei for her crimes, and all was right with the world.

And it was finally safe for Tyrion to return to Westeros.

Tyrion had been in a tavern in Norvos when he'd first heard the news, getting drunk and trying to con a particularly stupid bard out of his last halfpenny. The Night King was dead. Cersei Lannister was dead. And Westeros was safe again, at least until another mad king decided to sit upon the throne.

Tyrion had gathered up the pennies he'd been hoarding, called in his debts, and had managed to scrape together just enough to fund his passage home. It had taken months, but now, he was almost there. Soon, they'd be making port, and his life would finally begin again.

It had been a long, lonely exile for Tyrion. He'd been separated from Lord Varys early on, and their paths had never crossed again. He'd heard rumors that Varys had eventually found his way into the court of Daenerys Targaryen and had helped her reach Westeros. Of course, Varys had lost his life for it, but at least he'd died doing what he believed was right.

Tyrion, on the other hand, had spent years traveling the breadth and width of Essos, trying to find something meaningful to occupy his time with while he tried to avoid being captured and dragged back to Westeros. The first year had been the worst. He'd seen ghosts at every turn, around every corner. He'd taught himself to sleep with one eye open, just so he could finally get some rest.

Eventually, he'd become so poor and unkempt and dirty that no one in the world would have been able to tell him apart from all the other worthless dwarves roaming the land begging for alms. And so he had finally begun to let his guard down. Now, he could go anywhere, speak to anyone, without fear of discovery, and not just because he was barely recognizable, but because all those who wanted him dead were already in the grave themselves.

Suddenly, the ship lurched to one side, nearly knocking Tyrion off his feet. He gripped the railing to keep himself upright, his eyes never leaving the scene before him. King's Landing was growing closer by the minute. Although it was the middle of the day, the clouds cast a shadowy pall over everything. It was still winter, and from a distance, the city looked quiet and peaceful, as if it were hibernating and just waiting for summer to reawaken it.

Tyrion had no plans for what would happen when he reached the shore. It didn't really matter what happened as long as he could finally plant his feet on home soil again. He felt tired and weary, old beyond his years. He had heard through whispers and rumors that his brother Jaime still lived, that he'd married a fine lady and was now the Lord of Casterly Rock. Tyrion hoped it was true because, if it was, maybe he'd finally be able to return to the Westerlands in peace. If it wasn't true, Tyrion feared what had become of the Rock. Had it fallen into disrepair, a mere relic of its former glory? Or had some unknown lord taken command of it, someone appointed by the new king? Tyrion had too many questions and not enough answers, but he knew it wouldn't be that way for long.

Another half hour passed, and the ship finally moored in port. The city was much busier than it had looked from afar, the wharf bustling with people going about their daily business. It was obvious to Tyrion that no matter who sat on the Iron Throne, little seemed to change for the smallfolk. They were still poor. Their lives were still hard. It was all the same.

Of course, Jon Snow had barely been on the throne six months and the country was still reeling from years of endless war. Perhaps the boy would make things easier for his subjects if given enough time. As Tyrion remembered him, he was an honest boy, earnest and altruistic. If anyone could effect change, it was Jon Snow.

Tyrion clambered down the gangboard with the other passengers, no one paying him particular attention. But then, why should they? He was certain that as far as most of Westeros was concerned, Tyrion Lannister was long dead and happily forgotten, just like his father and sister.

Tyrion walked the streets, taking his time to observe his surroundings despite the bitter cold. He held his cloak tightly around him with gloved hands, warding off the worst of the winter sting. How many times had he walked these streets when he'd lived in King's Landing? A dozen times? A hundred? Everything looked different now, and yet, eerily the same. But maybe it was the snow that did that. He had never seen King's Landing in winter before. Perhaps the only difference now was that there was snow on the ground and a chill in the air.

As unwise as it was to visit the haunts of his past, Tyrion was drawn to the same familiar places he had known in his previous life, before he'd been convicted of Joffrey's murder, before he had murdered his own father and made his escape across the Narrow Sea. And so he found himself hiding from the cold in an old familiar tavern in Flea Bottom, having a beer and huddling at a small table in the corner, listening to the men and women reveling around him.

Tyrion had gotten very good at being inconspicuous, despite his unique stature. He had learned to listen more than talk, a skill it had been very difficult for him to hone. He listened now for any bits of truth that wafted on the air – gossip about the new king, whispers about Cersei's execution, fears about the future of Westeros. The talk was much more detailed than what he'd heard in Essos, but nothing told him what he truly needed to know. He needed to know what had happened to Jaime before he decided what to do next.

Tyrion was on his first bowl of stew and his second tankard of beer when the door burst open and a familiar voice rang out across the room.

"Hey, barkeep. I'm gettin' married tomorrow. One round on me!"

The entire room cheered in appreciation, and a bunch of men scrambled from their tables to rush the bar for drinks before the new arrival changed his mind.

Tyrion stayed exactly where he was, his head bent over his stew, his heart pounding against his ribs. His first instinct was to look up, to make sure that the voice matched the face he remembered. But he wasn't ready to reveal himself just yet. He still needed time to reacclimate to his surroundings before he exposed himself and there was no going back.

Tyrion listened intently as the tavern benefactor got himself a table and called over a serving wench. There was some slapping and giggling and promises of a glorious night to come. The more the man spoke, the more Tyrion was certain that it was Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.

Tyrion forced himself to finish eating his stew, the chunky liquid feeling like rocks in his stomach. He didn't know what to do. Did he want to talk to Bronn? Should he talk to Bronn? The problem was, he had no idea who Bronn was working for, and if it was an enemy – because gods only knew who might still want him dead – Tyrion didn't know if he could trust his old friend or not. He had no money to offer him, no way to keep him quiet if he threatened to reveal Tyrion's secrets. And yet, Tyrion longed to see a familiar face, just once. It had been far too long.

It was a good half hour before Tyrion finally had the courage to raise his eyes and look around. When he did, he found Bronn staring at him from across the room, his expression as implacable as ever.

Bronn slowly shook his head. Then, he nudged the girl off his lap, stood, and made his way toward Tyrion, his drink still in his hand. He looked older, though no less cynical than usual. All his limbs were still attached, so Tyrion knew he couldn't have done too badly in the war.

Tyrion's first instinct was to hide his face, and his second instinct was to run. But he did neither because he already knew he was caught.

"Knew it was you," Bronn said as he sat down in the chair opposite Tyrion. "Been waiting for you to show your face for half an hour. Never remembered you being a coward."

"I'm not a coward," Tyrion said, washing down the lump in his throat with a mouthful of beer. "I'm just being cautious."

Bronn laughed. He looked around the room. "Cautious? Who here do you think is going to recognize you, other than me?"

"It wasn't really them I was worried about."

"Oh, no? That mean you were worried about me?"

"It's been five years," Tyrion reasoned. "I have no idea who's pocket you're in now."

"I'm not in anyone's pocket," Bronn said, sitting up taller and straightening out the front of his leather tunic. For the very first time, Tyrion noticed the fine cut of his clothes, the gold trim around the edges. Either Bronn had murdered and stripped a very rich dead man or he had moved up the social ranks of his own accord in the time Tyrion had been gone.

"Don't tell me someone finally made you a lord," Tyrion said in disbelief.

"I'm about to become Lord of the Twins, actually. Gettin' two castles, not one. And a pretty wife to go with them. You missed a lot while you were gone."

The mention of the Twins set Tyrion's teeth on edge. That was where Catelyn and Robb Stark and all their men had been murdered at his father's command. It was an awful business, something Tyrion did his best never to think about. The Red Wedding, as it had come to be known, had destroyed more than Robb Starks' chance to take the throne, it had destroyed Tyrion's very last chance at happiness.

"What's wrong with you?" Bronn asked, cutting through Tyrion's thoughts. "You look like you're a thousand miles away."

"Sorry." Tyrion shook his head, chasing away the memories. "You were saying?"

"Where have you been all this time?" Bronn asked, leaning forward so that he could rest his arms on the table, closing some of the distance between them.

"Where haven't I been?"

"Well, Westeros, that's for damn sure. You look like shit, by the way. In case no one's told you."

"Thanks. I honestly had no idea." Tyrion took another sip of his beer. He didn't need Bronn to tell him that he looked like shit. He was more acutely aware of it than anyone.

"What are you doing here now?" Bronn asked when Tyrion finally put down his tankard.

"What do you think? My sister's dead – at least, I've heard she's dead – so what possible reason could I have to stay away?"

"You're still a Lannister, and there's now a Stark on the Iron Throne. I'd think that's reason enough."

"Jon Snow has nothing against me. As far as I know, anyway. Why should that concern me?"

Bronn let out a long, low whistle, and the hairs on the back of Tyrion's neck stood on end.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"You abandoned his cousin. Fled Westeros and never came back for her. I would think that's reason enough for him to hate you."

"Sansa?" Tyrion asked in disbelief, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. He hadn't spoken her name in five long years, and it felt very strange to say it now.

"Yes, Sansa. Your wife. Or don't you remember that part? Just how drunk are you?"

"Not drunk enough. I'm only on my second beer."

Bronn snickered. "Well, you never came back for her."

"And how could I? I was wanted for the king's murder. I escaped my own execution."

"Yeah, but you could have made some kind of effort. As is, you left the poor girl to fall into Littlefinger's hands, and by the time she made it back to Winterfell, she already had a babe in her arms."

Tyrion shook his head, trying to break free of his stupor. "What are you talking about?"

"Sansa Stark. Your wife. She has a child. The Bastard of Winterfell they call him. Seems rather fitting, if you think about it. Winterfell lost its old bastard – turned out he wasn't a bastard at all – and now it's got a new one, thanks to Sansa Stark."

This was certainly not the news Tyrion had expected. He had expected to come back to Westeros and discover that his marriage to Sansa Stark had been dissolved. After all, he'd assumed that everyone thought he was dead, so why shouldn't she have moved on with her life, married someone worthy of her and started over? Tyrion was more confused than anything. He had wanted to ask Bronn about Jaime, but now, he needed to know the truth about Sansa before they went any further.

"Who . . . who is the father?" It was all Tyrion could think to ask.

"Well," Bronn said with a laugh, "she claims it's you. But no one believes that. I'd assume it was Littlefinger if I hadn't seen the boy myself. Looks nothin' like him." Bronn shrugged. "I suppose the father could be anyone, really. After you left, she spent a good long time in the Vale under Littlefinger's protection. Gods only know what she got up to when she was hiding out up there."

Tyrion hated to think that Littlefinger had fathered Sansa's child. He couldn't think of a worse man for her to attach herself to. Littlefinger was a manipulative, conniving monster, a whoremonger and a villain. Tyrion hoped it was anyone but him, anyone at all.

"Where is she now?" Tyrion asked.

"I told you, Winterfell. She took up there after Jon came to King's Landing and Bran went to live north of the Wall. Her and her little sister are the only Starks left. Someone had to take over Winterfell. It made the most sense that the Lady Lannister should be the one to do it."

"She still uses my name?" Tyrion asked, the words hollow in his throat.

"Yeah, well, what choice does she have? She's got the boy, after all. Had to give him some sense of legitimacy, even if no one believes it."

"And I'm assuming the child is . . . normal?"

"What? You mean not a dwarf?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you think no one believes her? Besides the fact that a pretty thing like her would never want to bed the likes of you?"

Tyrion nodded. He hadn't thought the child was his, not really. He and Sansa had only spent one night together, and that had been so very long ago. Before her family had been murdered by his. Before his entire world had fallen apart.

"Is she all right?" Tyrion needed to know. He had no intention of ever returning to Winterfell, of ever seeing Sansa Stark again, but he had to know if she was well.

"By all accounts. She's pretty close to her cousin now. They send ravens back and forth all the time. I think she's all right."

"And how do you know what goes on in the Red Keep?" Tyrion asked, ever suspicious of his cunning friend.

"Oh, didn't I mention that? Who do you think gave me my title and my two castles? None other than King Aegon himself."

Tyrion was surprised by the news. In fact, he didn't think he could have been more shocked if a full-grown dragon had suddenly appeared in the sky and burned off the roof of the tavern. "And what, pray tell, did you do to convince the new king to lavish you with such gifts?"

"I helped fight the Night King."

"Did you really?"

"And I wasn't the only one. Your brother was there too. Which is why good old King Aegon let him keep Casterly Rock."

The blood stilled in Tyrion's veins as he stared at Bronn, trying to figure out just how true his words were. This is what Tyrion had come to King's Landing for, this information, to find out if Jaime was really still alive.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bronn laughed. "Find that hard to believe as well?"

"My brother . . . Jaime, is he still alive?"

A broad smile slowly spread across Bronn's lips as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out beneath him. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I don't know anything," Tyrion snapped. "Just rumors I've heard on the other side of the Narrow Sea. I want to know, is Jaime alive or is this all just an elaborate lie designed to drag me out of the shadows?"

"Oh, he's alive all right. Right before the battle, your brother turned on Cersei. He tried to bring the Lannister army north with him, but they refused to leave your cunt sister. So he headed up north on his own, a lone knight riding straight into certain death, and he helped us win the war. Jon Snow couldn't ignore him after that. Couldn't execute him either. So," Bronn shrugged, "he gave him a castle. And all is quiet in the Westerlands."

Had the story come from anyone else, Tyrion wouldn't have believed it, but he knew Bronn, knew how to read him. Bronn was getting far too much pleasure from telling the story. There was no way he had made it up.

"Well?" Bronn asked when Tyrion failed to speak. "What do you think?"

"I think . . . I think . . ." Tyrion didn't know what to think. He had been so certain that it was all a lie, that the rumors about Jaime taking Casterly Rock were just that, rumors. But now that he knew the truth, the world was suddenly a very different place. He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't without family or friends. He had Bronn and Jaime, and that was quite a great deal more than he'd had just an hour earlier.

"Yes?" Bronn prompted. "You think . . .?"

"I think, in the morning, I will be on my way to Casterly Rock."

Bronn laughed. "Don't you think you should be on your way to Winterfell?"

"Whatever for?"

"Your wife and her bastard son?"

Tyrion had no interest in heading north, nor in seeing Sansa Stark again. Better for her to continue to think that he had abandoned her or that he was dead. Her life would be much easier without him in it. Perhaps she'd even remarry someday, as long as he stayed away.

"I think it would be best for all concerned if I forgot all about Sansa Stark," Tyrion said. "Let her live her life as she chooses without me in it."

Bronn shook his head, making a tsking noise with his tongue. "And what happens when news reaches Winterfell that Tyrion Lannister has suddenly appeared at Casterly Rock? What do you think is going to happen then?"

Tyrion pushed aside Bronn's concerns with a wave of his hand. "Nothing in particular. I'll stay at the Rock, if Jaime will allow it, and I need never see her again."

"And how do you think the new king is going to feel about that?"

Bronn had a very good point. When Tyrion had married Sansa, he'd had no idea that someday she'd be the king's cousin. Had anyone else been on the throne, Tyrion might have gotten away with abandoning her forever, but Jon was a proud northerner, a Stark through and through. He would not take a slight against his family so easily. Kind though he had always been to Tyrion, this was different, and Tyrion knew it.

"What is it that you suggest?" Tyrion asked, afraid he wasn't quite prepared for the answer.

"Come with me up to the Red Keep. See Jon. Talk to him. Tell him what you've been through and let him pardon you for Joffrey and Tywin's murders. Then, you can go north and claim your rightful place as the Lord of Winterfell."

"The Lord of Winterfell?"

"Well, you are married to the Lady of Winterfell, that would make you its lord. You can take the title away from that little bastard before he's old enough for it to go to his head."

This was all too much for Tyrion to take. He'd come back to Westeros hoping to live a quiet, unassuming life. In his fantasies, he'd imagined Jaime granting him a small piece of land where he could live in peaceful solitude, growing grapes and drinking wine. He'd imagined having his own vineyard and his own vintage and happily drinking himself to death.

But there were no vineyards up north, at least not the kind Tyrion had envisioned for himself. In the north, grapes could only be grown in a glass garden. And suddenly, all of Tyrion's fantasies came crashing down around him. He'd spent five years without being weighed down by the twin shackles of duty and honor. And then, the moment – the very moment – he'd stepped on home soil again, he'd been captured and chained as if he'd never escaped at all.

Tyrion didn't want to return to Winterfell, and he sure as hell didn't want to return to the Red Keep. "What makes you think that Jon Snow is going to pardon me for anything?" he asked, determined to veer the conversation away from Sansa Stark and her bastard son.

"As I recall you tellin' it," Bronn said, "he rather liked you when you last met. Besides, everyone knows you didn't kill Joffrey, and you did our new king a great favor by murdering your father. Of course, he'll pardon you."

Tyrion wasn't so sure. Politics were a funny thing. You could be allies with someone one minute, and the next thing you knew, they could be chopping off your head. Ned Stark was a perfect example of just how fickle the winds blew in King's Landing.

"I think I'd rather avoid the Red Keep altogether, if it's all the same to you."

"What? Too much of a coward to go before the king?"

"Too tired, quite frankly. The truth is, I don't want any of this. I don't want a pardon. I don't want the king's gratitude. I don't want Sansa Stark or the title that comes with her. I just want peace and quiet and to not live like a hunted animal for once. That's all."

"And yet, you are a Lannister, and with that come certain responsibilities."

"Gods, now you sound like my father," Tyrion swore. "I will not go before the new king and beg for a pardon. I'm not ready for the world to know I'm alive yet. I'm not ready for any of this."

"Well, you can't go straight to the Rock."

"And why not?"

"Because that will offend the king when he finds out that you're still alive. If you're going to go anywhere, go north. See your wife. Decide from there what you want to do." Bronn laughed. "Perhaps you can pretend that you missed her so much that you had no choice but to race to her side. Who knows? That just might impress the king."

Tyrion hated all his options, absolutely all of them, except going to Casterly Rock. But Bronn was right. He owed fealty to the new king, whether he liked it or not, and it was best to do as little to offend him as possible. Tyrion could travel to Winterfell, just a nameless dwarf riding alone on the kingsroad, see his wife, and assess his options up north. He could send word of his arrival to Jaime before he left. It wasn't ideal, by any means, but it was better than facing Jon Snow or incurring his wrath.

"I suppose there's no chance of you accompanying me on this journey north, is there?" Tyrion asked.

Bronn snorted. "I'm getting married tomorrow, to a lady. There's no way I'm missing out on my own wedding, and wedding night, for the likes of you. I'd ask you to stay for the ceremony, but you seem determined to go."

"I am."

"Then go. But be careful not to show your face to anyone who might recognize you. I'm sure somewhere there's still a bounty on your head, and if you get captured, you'll just end up right back here, standing before the king."

"I'll keep that in mind." Tyrion raised his tankard. "To you and your lovely new bride. I'm assuming she's lovely, isn't she?"

Bronn nodded. "With big tits."

"Well, to you and your lovely new bride, may you have a happier marriage than I ever did."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sansa Lannister stood on the covered walkway between the Great Hall and the armory at Winterfell, watching her son spar with her sister in the yard below, a light flurry of snowflakes drifting around them. It was the dead of winter, the snow more than three feet deep in the fields beyond the keep, but here, inside its walls, most of the snow had been shoveled away or packed down so that life could continue on as it always had.

Sansa could see her breath misting in front of her every time she breathed, but she barely noticed it. Her attention was on little Eddard, doing his best to fight like a warrior despite the fact that he wasn't even quite four and a half years old.

Eddard didn't look very much like a Stark, but he acted like one. He was brave and proud, and he understood duty and honor far better than the average child his age. Of course, he wasn't all Stark. Even if the world refused to see it, he had inherited much from his father, and Sansa's heart ached just a little every time she looked at him. He may have had her Tully blue eyes, but he had Tyrion's unruly blond hair, and every time he opened his mouth, she heard Tyrion's voice. Not the deep, honeyed tones that made her blood sing, but his words, his inflections. Eddard was an intelligent child, curious, loquacious, precocious. Sansa imagined that Tyrion had been much the same way at Eddard's age, and it warmed her heart just as much as it pained it.

Eddard was half warrior, half scholar, an odd combination in a four-year-old, but there was no doubt that he would make a superb Lord of Winterfell one day, even if half the kingdom believed he had no right to the title. Sansa tried not to let the gossip bother her, but it was always there. She knew what people thought, and there was nothing she could do or say to change their minds.

The sky was heavy with storm clouds, and Sansa knew it wouldn't be long until the snow began to fall in earnest. There would be another foot at least before morning. Sansa didn't mind though. She had always liked the snow, and besides, Eddard reveled in it. She was certain he'd be out at daybreak the next morning, making snow castles and throwing snowballs at anything that moved.

In the yard below, Arya goaded Eddard into attacking her. He raced forward, wooden sword in hand, intent on striking his aunt, but Arya easily sidestepped his assault, and little Eddard ran headfirst into a pile of snow. Sansa quickly descended the stairs to the yard, determined to put an end to their training session for one afternoon.

"That's enough," she said as she moved up behind her son, intending to pull him out of the snowbank.

But Eddard pushed himself out without her help, and when he turned over and looked up at her, he was laughing. "Can't we do it again?"

"No, you cannot do it again." Sansa reached down, putting her hands beneath his arms and pulling him upward so that he could stand on his own two feet. Without thinking, she began to wipe the snow from his cloak and tunic, though there was so much of it that it was nearly a lost cause. "That's enough for one day."

"Oh, let him do it again," Arya said, a genuine smile on her face. "It was funny, and he enjoyed it."

Sansa scowled at her sister. "No, that's enough for now." She turned her attention back to Eddard. "Go to your chamber and change your clothes. It's almost time for the afternoon meal, and you can't be seen in the Great Hall like this."

"Just one more time?" Eddard pleaded, his stubborn streak shining through.

"No, not one more time. Not any more times. Now, go," she said, with a slight pat to his bottom.

Eddard grumbled something under his breath as he headed toward the keep, something Sansa was sure she didn't want to hear. He reminded her very much of Tyrion at that moment, and Sansa tried her best to ignore the resemblance, lest she think too much about the past.

"You sound just like Mother when you say things like that," Arya said as they stood there watching after Eddard. "You were born to be the Lady of Winterfell, that much is certain."

Sansa began walking toward the keep, and Arya fell into step beside her.

"I really wish that wasn't true," Sansa replied. "It would mean Mother was still here. And Father. I'd much prefer that they still ruled over Winterfell. My ambitions are certainly not what they once were."

"Yes. There was a time when you wanted to be queen, remember?"

"I'd rather forget. I'd rather forget a lot of things. If I could just go back in time, change all of it—"

"Then you wouldn't have Eddard. And somehow, I don't think you could give him up for anything. Not Mother and Father. Not Robb and Rickon. You wouldn't really go back because you'd lose him, and we both know you couldn't bear that."

Sansa hated to admit it, but it was true. She loved her parents with all her heart. Loved Arya and Bran and Jon. Loved Robb and Rickon. But she loved no one more in all the world than Eddard. He was the greatest joy she had ever known, the one shining light in the darkness of her life. He made everything seem worth it – every tragedy, every loss. She thanked the gods every day for him because, without him, she would have given up on living a long time ago.

"No," Sansa said, "I suppose I wouldn't go back. I've already lost too much in my life. I don't want to lose anything more."

Sansa wasn't just talking about the family who had fallen in the years since she had first left Winterfell. She was also talking about the husband she had lost. For years she had assumed that Tyrion was dead, hearing not a single word of him after he had escaped King's Landing. But then, she had been reunited with Bran – or at least, what was left of Bran – and he had reassured her that Tyrion was still alive. Of course, it had been six months since she had seen Bran, and she feared every day that circumstances had changed. Just because Tyrion had been alive six months earlier, didn't mean that he was alive now. And even if he was, it didn't mean she would ever see him again.

It had been more than five years since Sansa had last seen Tyrion. The last time she had seen him had been at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding. He had held her hand as a troop of dwarves had made a mockery of Robb's death. And when Joffrey had kicked his cup under the table and demanded that Tyrion retrieve it, she had gotten it for him, feeling a desperate need to help her husband the way he had once helped her. If Ser Dontos had not hurried her away from the feast after Joffrey's murder—

Sansa didn't want to think about what would have happened. She was certain she would have stood trial right beside Tyrion, been convicted of regicide, and Eddard would never have come into this world. Sansa had spent a long time feeling guilty for having abandoned her husband, but had she stayed, things would have been worse for them both.

As if Arya could somehow read Sansa's mind, she said, "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"

Sansa's heart skipped a beat, and her body flushed with warmth. Arya had an uncanny ability to sense what she was thinking. That hadn't always been the case, but things had changed considerably between them since they'd both returned to Winterfell.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Sansa replied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Arya snorted derisively. "Don't you?"

Sansa looked down at her sister as they continued to amble across the snow-packed earth. "No, I don't. I've lost a lot of people in my life. They all mean a great deal to me."

"But he means more than most."

Sansa's cheeks burned hotly, and she turned away, hoping Arya wouldn't see. But there was no hiding anything from Arya.

"Why can't you admit it?" Arya asked, her tone as cool and seemingly disinterested as ever. "You've been waiting five years for him to come home. Why pretend when it's so painfully obvious?"

"It isn't painfully obvious," Sansa snapped. "I think you're just seeing something that isn't there, that's all."

"You mean the way you see a goodness in him that isn't there?"

Sansa stopped, forcing Arya to come up short beside her. She turned and looked down at her sister.

"There is good in him," Sansa said, speaking with her heart before her head could think.

"He murdered his own father. He murdered your handmaiden."

"We don't know that," Sansa said, lowering her voice, hoping no one had heard the accusation.

"Yes, we do. Who else would have done it? Lord Tywin? Don't tell me Tywin Lannister murdered your handmaiden and that Lord Tyrion was simply avenging her death. He murdered them both. Everyone knows it. Perhaps it's best that he hasn't come back to Westeros. You're better off without him."

Sansa shook her head. "No, I'm not. He's my husband. No matter what he's done, he belongs by my side. I'm sure, whatever he did during his last day in King's Landing, he had a very good reason for it. I loved Shae," Sansa said, her voice quivering with emotion, "but I didn't know her like I thought I did. I didn't really know her at all. And only Tyrion knows what happened between them that night, and until he can tell me himself, I cannot judge him for it."

Arya rolled her eyes and started walking again. Sansa was tempted not to follow, but she didn't want to seem like a coward, especially in front of her sister. So, in a few long strides, she caught up with Arya again, hoping that the conversation was over. But it wasn't.

"When are you going to admit the truth?" Arya asked, slowing her pace as they drew closer to the keep.

"What truth?"

"That you're in love with him."

"I am not in love with him," Sansa said, horrified that Arya would even make such a suggestion.

Arya turned her head, skewering her sister with cynical eyes.

"I am not," Sansa reiterated.

"And yet, you defend him when he's done the indefensible. You wait five long years for him to return when there is little indication that he ever will. You tell Eddard ridiculous fairy stories about him—"

"I do not—"

"Yes, you do. Eddard thinks his father is some kind of hero because of you, but he isn't. He's just a man, like any other. Worse than most, actually. But you can't seem to see that because you're still so moonstruck over that one precious night you spent together."

Sansa's skin flushed even hotter, but she refused to turn away from her sister, refused to hide like a petulant child. She was sorry now that she'd ever told Arya about what had passed between her and Tyrion. Had she known it was someday going to be used against her, she would never have spoken in the first place. That night, all those years ago, felt like little more than a dream now. The very next day, Sansa had discovered that the Freys had murdered her mother and brother, and everything had suddenly fallen apart. It had taken her a long time to learn to trust Tyrion again, and by the time she had, it was already too late.

It took Sansa a moment, but she finally replied, "It has nothing to do with that."

"Doesn't it?"

Arya stopped, just outside the door to the Great Hall, and Sansa stopped with her.

"No, it doesn't," Sansa said. "You don't know Tyrion like I do. He's not like the other Lannisters. He was always kind to me."

"Yes, because he wanted something from you, something that you were more than willing to give him."

"That isn't fair," Sansa said, her tone hardening. "Tyrion didn't ask anything of me, and he only took what I was willing to give. He's a good man. Better than most. Better than any I've ever known. And I won't let you slight his memory."

"His memory," Arya scoffed. "That's all he really is to you now, isn't he? A memory. A hazy, beautiful, fading memory that you can dress up however you like whenever the world around you gets too dark and scary. I don't blame you, Sansa. We all have things we cling to for comfort even though we know we shouldn't. I just wish the thing you chose to cling to wasn't going to break your heart."

"He's not going to break my heart. How can he? I'm never even going to see him again."

"Let's hope that's true."

Arya turned then and disappeared into the keep, leaving Sansa staring after her.

Sansa's heart was racing, and she could feel every nerve in her body trembling softly beneath her skin. It was as if Arya had ripped open her soul and poured salt in the wound, and Sansa suddenly felt like crying. She reminded herself that this was why she always kept her feelings for Tyrion hidden, why she never spoke his name unless she absolutely had to, why she never brought him up in conversation. She knew to do so would be to open herself up to ridicule, and she had already suffered enough.

Sansa knew what she felt for Tyrion was foolish. They hadn't known each other very long, and despite one glorious night of passion, there had been little intimacy between them. And yet, when she lay alone in her bed at night, it was his arms she imagined wrapped around her, his body she imagined pressed against hers. It was him she dreamt about. Him she longed for. She knew he wasn't much more than a ghost, a figment of her most fanciful daydreams. But it didn't matter. Sansa wanted to believe that she and Tyrion shared something special. She needed to believe it. It was the only thing that made the nights bearable, the only thing that got her through her loneliness. She had waited her whole life for a handsome knight to sweep her off her feet and steal her heart, and somehow, at least in her fantasies, Tyrion had become that knight. He was the love she had waited for all her life, and she was counting the days until he finally returned to her.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The road from King's Landing to Winterfell was a great deal more treacherous than Tyrion remembered, but then, the first time he'd traveled it, he'd been part of a caravan and it had been the height of summer. Now, the road was snowy and slippery, a danger for travelers at every turn. Before allowing him to leave for Winterfell, Bronn had taken Tyrion to the local stables and outfitted him with the finest horse Jon Snow's money could buy. After nearly a month on the road, the horse was finally starting to show some wear, moving slower and more cautiously the farther north they traveled.

The only saving grace in the entire journey was the fact that the kingsroad was kept relatively clear by royal decree so that provisions could continue to flow freely from south to north and north to south. While the snow had piled up in the fields beyond, the kingsroad had remained passable, though some spots had proven more difficult to navigate than others.

Although Tyrion had taken Bronn's advice about going north, he hadn't given up on being reunited with Jaime. Before leaving King's Landing, Tyrion had sent a raven to Casterly Rock, telling his brother that he was still alive and on his way to Winterfell. It wasn't as if Tyrion thought Jaime was going to head north to meet him there, but he wanted Jaime to know that he was still alive, just in case some tragedy befell him on the road and they never saw each other again. Thankfully, no one was interested in the contents of a message sent by a surly, unkempt dwarf, so Tyrion had little fear that the note would be intercepted before it reached the Rock.

It was late evening on the last leg of Tyrion's journey when Winterfell finally came into view. He had thought about stopping in the winter town and getting a room for the night so that he could approach the keep in broad daylight come morning, but he had ultimately decided against it. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get past the gates of Winterfell without revealing his identity, but he was certain his chances were better in the dark than they would be in the bright light of day.

And so he urged his horse through the streets of the winter town, past the sleepy cottages with their snow-covered roofs and smoky chimneys. He was no hero, no warrior. There was no way he was going to be able to storm the castle and break inside. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember if there was a way to sneak past the walls. He was sure there must be, for someone more familiar with the castle, but if Winterfell held any such secrets, they were a mystery to Tyrion.

Which meant that he only had one option, and that was to go straight to the East Gate. Had the ground not been covered with four feet of snow, Tyrion might have avoided the main gate and tried to approach from the south or the west. But there was no clear path around the walls of Winterfell, and the only gate accessible to him was the gate off the kingsroad.

Tyrion slowed his mount as he approached the East Gate, waiting for the guards to meet him. They came forward, two young men with swords at their hips, looking him up and down as if they had never seen a dwarf before in their lives.

"State your business," the one to Tyrion's left demanded. He was a tall boy with short blond hair, probably no more than twenty. He looked hardened for his age, but then, he had undoubtedly seen more fighting and death in the past year than Tyrion had seen in his entire life.

"I am here to see the Lady of Winterfell," Tyrion answered.

The other guard snickered. His hair was as black as pitch, and he was no older than his companion, but he looked just as wizened. "The Lady of Winterfell doesn't have time to meet with beggars."

"Do I look like a beggar to you?"

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Tyrion cut him off.

"Before you answer that," he said, "take a look at my horse. Does it look like something a beggar would ride?"

The boy's eyes traveled down the length of Tyrion's mount. Even after almost a moonturn on the road, it was still a fine piece of horseflesh, there was no denying that.

"So you stole it from somewhere. Even more reason not to let you in."

Tyrion laughed. "And how exactly do you think I could have stolen a horse? Look at me. Do you think I strike fear into the hearts of men? Do you think me capable of being a highwayman and robbing travelers on the road?"

Both guards eyed him doubtfully. They looked more confused than convinced by his words.

"I assure you," Tyrion said, "I am a descendant of a great house, and I've come here to bring Lady Lannister news of her husband."

"Lady Lannister doesn't have a husband," the fair-haired boy replied. "He's long dead. Everyone knows that."

"No, everyone does not know that, not for certain. I must see Lady Lannister at once."

"No, you must turn that horse around and leave at once. Unless you want me to introduce you to my fist. Or would you prefer the sword?"

This wasn't going at all as Tyrion had hoped it would. The guards had already made up their minds about him. As far as they were concerned, he was a feckless dwarf on a stolen horse. If they let him past the gates of Winterfell, it would only be to escort him to a cell to await trial for thievery.

"Well, get on with you now," the other guard urged when Tyrion failed to move. "You can't stay here all night."

"But Lady Lannister—"

"Has no time for the likes of you." The boy moved closer, unsheathing his sword in silent threat. "Turn around now, or you'll be spending the night in a cell. It's your choice."

Although being escorted to a cell would mean that Tyrion might eventually see Sansa – at least when he came before her to stand trial – he had no idea how long he'd be held captive before he got his chance to see her. Horse thieving was a severe offense, punishable by death. If these guards really thought he was a horse thief, they might let him linger in his cell for many moons before they even informed Sansa of his presence.

"Well, now," Tyrion said, "if you put it that way—"

But he never got the chance to finish. The guards had obviously had enough of his tongue for one night, and the blond one reached up and dragged Tyrion off his horse before he could say another word.

"That's enough of you," the boy grumbled. "We're taking you in."

He dragged Tyrion a few feet toward the yard before a calm, steely voice said, "Let him go."

The guard stopped. He scanned the surrounding darkness, looking for the source of the voice. A moment later, a small figure stepped out from among the shadows, eyeing them coldly. It was Arya Stark.

"You heard me," she said. "Let him go before I take out my sword and you end up with a few extra holes in you. Do you understand?"

The boy instantly released Tyrion and backed away slowly, obviously intimidated by Lady Arya. She had changed a great deal since the last time Tyrion had seen her. She had changed so much, in fact, that he almost hadn't recognized her. But there was no mistaking her dark eyes or her slight stature or her Stark pride. No, even though she no longer looked like a lady, that was definitely Arya Stark standing before him, and no one else.

She made a wide circle around Tyrion and the two guards, walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her back. She looked like she didn't have a care in the world. She certainly didn't seem surprised to see Tyrion, but then, perhaps she didn't recognize him. Although his voice was the same as it had ever been, he didn't look very lordly in his beggar's rags. Perhaps she thought him just an aimless wanderer stopping to ask for alms.

When Arya had completed one full circle around them, she stopped directly in front of Tyrion, her eyes focused on him with the keenness of a predator. "Leave us," she said, sending the two guards scurrying away, and just like that, she and Tyrion were alone.

A spark of cold dread crept down Tyrion's spine as the once-little girl stared at him in chilling assessment. Under different circumstances, he might have opened his mouth and tried to talk himself out of the current situation, but there was something so ruthless in Arya Stark's eyes that he didn't dare breathe a word. He knew he'd have a chance to speak once she spoke. But until she opened her mouth, he was going to keep his shut.

"You say you've come with word of my sister's husband," Arya said, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes," Tyrion replied, his throat suddenly dry. "From Essos."

"Is he alive then?"

"Yes." Tyrion was surprised that Arya didn't recognize him. She had looked at him so intently that he'd been sure she'd figured out who he was.

"And when is he coming back?"

"I think that is a question best answered just for Lady Lannister."

"And why did he send you? Why does my dwarf of a brother-in-law need another dwarf to deliver his messages?"

"It's a long story. One I'd be more than happy to tell you over a hot bowl of soup and a large glass of wine."

She looked down her nose at him. "Do you really think you're going to be allowed in the castle looking like that? I could smell the filth on you from ten feet away. Surely, you don't intend to meet with Lady Lannister looking and smelling like that."

Tyrion didn't care how he looked or smelled. In truth, he wanted to meet with Sansa just as he was. He wanted to look as sad and miserable as possible when she finally saw him so that she would send him away without a second thought. No one but Bronn – and hopefully, Jaime – knew he was alive yet. And if Sansa Stark decided that she didn't want him for a husband anymore, it could stay that way. He'd turn around, leave Winterfell forever, and never darken her life again.

"I think I look just fine," Tyrion said with a laugh. "I only need a moment of her time. I'm sure she can withstand the smell for that long. After all, she was born a Stark, and I hear the Starks are quite a hearty lot."

Arya's eyes raked over him in quiet appraisal, and Tyrion held his breath, wondering if she intended to let him in or if she was going to turn him away. When next she spoke, all she said was, "Grab your horse and follow me."

Tyrion exhaled a relieved sigh, his breath crystallizing in a cloud of smoke in the cold evening air. He turned around just long enough to seize his horse's reins before following Arya Stark into the yard.

He looked around as he walked, taking in his surroundings with acute interest. It had been more years than he could remember since he'd last visited Winterfell. The keep had changed a great deal since then. Now, it wasn't just the library that lay in snow-covered ruins. It was obvious that the castle had been hit hard by the war, and more than one outbuilding had been burned to the ground. It looked as if the Great Keep was mostly intact, with only the odd stone missing here and there. Even though the destruction could have been far worse, it all looked bleak in the dim evening light. A hazy half-moon hung overhead and a few torches spluttered in the wind around them, but beyond that, all was dark and quiet.

When they reached the entrance to the Great Hall, Arya called over a stableman. "Take his horse," she commanded. "Brush it, feed it, and give it shelter for the night."

Tyrion opened his mouth to protest, he had no intention of staying more than an hour, but Arya lifted a hand in warning, instantly silencing him.

The stableman dutifully took Tyrion's horse and led him away, leaving Tyrion no choice but to follow Arya into the Great Hall.

The hall, at least, looked no different than the last time Tyrion had seen it. He recalled that visit quite fondly, in fact. It was the one time he had been able to do something kind for Bran Stark, and he was glad that he'd had the opportunity. He had asked Bronn what had happened to the boy and had been informed that he'd somehow become a greenseer, the Three-Eyed Raven, and now lived north of what was left of the Wall, never to return.

It was a shame, really. Bran Stark was his father's last remaining male heir. By rights, Winterfell should have been his. But Bronn had said that Bran Stark no longer existed, at least, not as he had once been. He was a shell of his former self, a hollow husk stripped of his humanity and living only for his visions, an almost otherworldly being who had no place in the lives of men. Tyrion could scarcely imagine such a thing, but he knew it must be true or else Bran would be there now, sitting at the head table, interrogating him upon his arrival.

Tyrion stopped when they reached the center of the Great Hall, and Arya immediately turned around to face him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Waiting."

"You're not to wait here. You're to follow me."

"But this is the Great Hall. Traditionally, this is where the Lord, or Lady, of Winterfell meets with messengers. I shall wait here for Lady Lannister, if it's all the same to you."

The truth was, Tyrion didn't want to be alone with Sansa in the confines of her solar, or worse, her bedchamber. He just wanted to meet with her for a moment, let her see for herself that he was alive, and be on his way. It would be easier to do that if they met in the Great Hall. The hall was cold and impersonal. It was where Sansa conducted business on a daily basis. And this was business, plain and simple. Nothing more.

"If you wish to speak to my sister tonight," Arya said, "you will follow me."

"But why? You said yourself, I am in no state to be granted an audience with her ladyship. Surely, she would prefer to sit on the opposite side of the hall, as far from me as possible, as I give her my message."

Arya's eyes darkened. It was a subtle change, but it sent another chill racing down Tyrion's spine. He didn't remember Arya Stark being quite so scary. He remembered her as an energetic child, eager to explore and play with the boys. But now, she was a killer to her very core. Tyrion didn't know how many men she'd killed, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that it was far more than he ever had. He didn't want to cross her. He valued his own safety far too much for that.

"And as you said," Arya reminded him, "my sister is a Stark and we Starks are a hearty lot. Follow me."

Arya turned on her heel without another word and headed toward the doors at the far end of the hall. Tyrion could do nothing but follow.

They exited the Great Hall and entered the maze of corridors that ran through the main keep. Tyrion didn't know where she was taking him, though if he'd had to guess, he would have assumed it was Sansa's private living quarters.

With each step they took, Tyrion's anxiety grew. He had spent a moonturn on the road headed north to be reunited with his wife, and in all that time, not once had he felt the slightest fluttering in his chest at the thought of seeing her again. But now that their reunion was only moments away, the blood was racing through his veins and his heart was pounding against his ribs. He didn't know what he expected or what he feared. All he knew was that, for better or for worse, he was nervous about seeing Sansa again.

When Tyrion and Arya finally stopped, it was in front of a heavy wooden door. Arya pushed the door open without knocking and ushered Tyrion inside. The room was a large solar, warm and comfortable, a fire already burning in the hearth. Tyrion's eyes darted around, searching for Sansa, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Wait here," Arya said. And then, before Tyrion could utter a single word of protest, she drew the door closed behind her and disappeared.

The breath caught in Tyrion's throat as he stared at the closed door. Suddenly, he felt like a caged animal. There was no escape now. The next time the door opened, Sansa Stark would be standing on the other side of it, and after five long years, he would finally see his wife again.

Tyrion had a fondness for Sansa that went well beyond what a man should feel for a woman he'd been forced to marry for political reasons. She was a smart girl, kind, well-mannered, always trying to behave like a lady even in the worst of circumstances. She had a good sense of humor, though as he recalled, she barely ever allowed herself to laugh. There'd been a time when he'd been certain that they could make each other happy, but it had been tragically brief. It had lasted all of one night and had ended the next day when they'd both discovered that her mother and brother had been murdered at his father's command.

After that, the coldness between them had returned, and as hard as Tyrion had tried to break down her walls, he'd never quite succeeded. His last memory of Sansa was at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding. Sansa had bent down to retrieve Joffrey's cup for him. She had handed it to him with a kindness and understanding in her eyes that haunted him to this very day. In that moment, that look had given him hope. And had things been different – had Joffrey not been murdered minutes later, had Tyrion not been convicted of his murder and gone into exile – they might have had a chance to rebuild the connection between them. They might have had a chance at happiness.

Tyrion tore his eyes away from the door and gazed about the room. There was a long sofa beside him, and on one of the cushions was a little hoop of needlework. He smiled despite himself as he picked it up, careful not to spoil the fabric with the dirt on his fingers. The stitches were straight, delicate, measured. Just like the girl who had made them. No matter how chaotic the world got, no matter how much things changed, there were some things that were always constant, like Sansa Stark and her needlework. She had always loved sewing, and she had always been extraordinarily good at it.

A wave of emotion flooded Tyrion's throat, and he nearly choked on it. He laid the hoop down on the cushion again and steeled himself against his feelings. He moved as far away from the couch as he could, determined to keep this meeting as cold and impersonal as possible. He was just there to make his presence known and to offer Sansa a way out of a marriage he was sure she no longer had any use for. That was all.

Tyrion clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the fireplace, silently waiting for his wife.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Little Eddard was just drifting off to sleep when there was a soft rap at the door. Sansa leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss against his mop of curly hair before blowing out his candle and moving across the room. She opened the door and slipped out into the corridor, not at all surprised to find Arya waiting for her there.

"You're needed in your solar," Arya said plainly.

"Needed?"

"There's a messenger here to see you. He says he's come with word about your husband."

Sansa's heart dropped to her stomach, and all the blood drained from her face. She stared at Arya for one breathless moment, trying to make sense of her sister's words. "Tyrion?"

"Do you have another husband I don't know about?"

Sansa couldn't even answer. She just shook her head in silent disbelief as she turned and began to make her way down the corridor toward her solar. Arya instantly fell into step beside Sansa, accompanying her with a disinterested calm that Sansa found slightly irritating. Arya was acting as if the messenger's arrival was an everyday occurrence, as if it meant nothing more than the average tenant farmer visiting to make a report on their grain stores. But it was definitely more important than that, much more important. Sansa hadn't heard word of Tyrion in months, not since Bran had left. She'd thought she'd never hear anything about him again, so this was an unexpected blessing.

At least, she hoped it was a blessing.

For all Sansa knew, the messenger had come to tell her that Tyrion was dead and would never be returning to Westeros.

As Sansa and Arya approached her solar, Sansa's limbs began to shake, and she feared, if she wasn't careful, she might faint.

"Are you all right?" Arya asked as they stopped in front of the door.

"What?" Sansa had barely heard the question. She'd been too lost in her own thoughts.

"Are you all right? You look pale. Well, more pale than usual. Are you sure you're up to this?"

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded her head. The motion made her feel slightly ill. "Yes. I'm ready. Good or bad, I'm ready."

"Well, good or bad depends on your point of view, I suppose."

Sansa's eyes snapped to Arya. "What does that mean?"

"Just that it depends on whether you're hoping your husband is alive or dead. If you're hoping he's dead, you might be sorely disappointed."

Sansa's breath hitched in her throat. "Tyrion's alive?"

Arya shrugged. "You're going to have to ask the messenger."

That was all the encouragement Sansa needed. She immediately turned toward the door and pushed it open, stepping inside and scanning the room for the man who was going to tell her what had become of her long-lost husband.

And then she saw him, standing in the center of the room, his back turned toward her. He wore a long, dark cloak, caked with mud and grime from the road. It was tattered and torn and looked thinner than the blankets they used to cover the horses at night. The man stood no taller than Tyrion, and Sansa couldn't help but wonder if her husband had finally returned to her. She held her breath, waiting for him to turn around, hoping beyond hope that it was Tyrion and not just a messenger come to tell her his fate.

Slowly, the man turned toward her, and Sansa's eyes immediately fixed on his face. His skin was brown with dirt, half his face obscured by an unruly beard, but his eyes— Sansa would have recognized those eyes anywhere. It was Tyrion, come back from the dead, come back for her.

Sansa sobbed in relief, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. She stared in mute astonishment at the man who had haunted her dreams for so many years, the man she'd nearly given up hope of ever seeing again. She wanted to run to him, to fall to her knees and wrap her arms around him. She wanted to hug him close and make sure that he was real. But she couldn't. Her limbs wouldn't move. She was numb all over, and all she could do was stare.

And Tyrion stared right back.

There was something in his eyes that she couldn't name – pain, longing, wonder. She wasn't sure. But he made no move to come to her either. He just stared at her as if the Narrow Sea stood between them, as if she was far beyond his reach.

Sansa's bottom lip trembled as she struggled to speak. She only managed to say a single word. "Tyrion?"

He nodded his head, so slightly that he almost didn't move at all.

A stray tear rolled down Sansa's cheek, and she instinctively reached up to swipe it away. "Where . . . where have you been?"

"Pentos. Norvos. Everywhere that ends in an -os," he joked. "Except Westeros, of course."

The sound of his voice seeped through Sansa's skin like warm honey, sinking into her heart and making her feel oddly whole for the first time in more years than she could remember. She'd forgotten how beautiful his voice sounded, how rich and deep and comforting. It was a balm to her weary soul, and she was ever so happy to hear it again.

"What . . . what are you doing here?"

Tyrion's eyes darted to Arya for a moment and then back to Sansa. "I came here to make sure that you were well. I've only just returned to Westeros, and I needed to see you."

"Arya said that you'd sent a messenger. I was expecting to meet with a messenger." It was a stupid thing to say, and Sansa knew it, but she wasn't thinking clearly at the moment.

Arya laughed. "You don't really think I'd mistake the Imp for anyone else, do you? But I let him keep up his charade. It seemed to make him feel better."

Of course, Arya had recognized Tyrion. Arya was so keenly observant that it was almost frightening sometimes. Sansa just wished that Arya had told her the truth from the beginning. She might have been better prepared to face Tyrion if she had known that he was waiting for her in her solar.

Sansa's eyes scanned down the length of her husband. He looked tired and world-weary. And cold, very cold. She didn't know what they were supposed to do now, but she knew that, first and foremost, they needed to take care of Tyrion's immediate physical needs.

"Arya," Sansa said, "have a room readied for Lord Tyrion. And a bath, fresh clothes, and a hearty supper."

"No, my lady, no," Tyrion interjected before Arya could even move.

"And why not? You look like you've had a long journey. You need to eat and refresh yourself."

Again, Tyrion's eyes moved to Arya for a moment before quickly settling on Sansa once more. "I have no intention of staying. I just need a private word with you, please."

Sansa was thoroughly confused. Tyrion had obviously traveled a long way to see her. Why in the world was he suddenly so eager to leave? Whether he knew it or not, Winterfell was his home now, he was lord of the keep. There was no reason for him to go, especially in his current condition.

Sansa looked at Arya, who was patiently waiting for further instruction. Sansa couldn't read anything in her sister's eyes. She was as inscrutable as ever.

"Arya, give us a moment alone, please."

"Would you still like me to make arrangements for my brother-in-law's comfort?" Arya asked.

"Yes, thank you."

Tyrion grumbled something under his breath, but both Sansa and Arya ignored it.

"As you wish, my lady," Arya replied. She cast a sidelong glance at Tyrion, as if in warning, before turning around and exiting the room. She closed the door securely behind her, leaving Sansa and Tyrion alone for the first time in five long years.

The silence that settled between them was deafening. Tyrion glanced awkwardly about the room, looking at everything he could except Sansa. She didn't understand why he was acting so strangely. She knew it had been a long time since they had last seen each other, knew a lot had changed for both of them, but he was still her husband and she was still his wife, and that alone should have been enough to quell the awkwardness between them, but it wasn't.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, Sansa finally broke the silence. "You said you wanted a moment of my time. Well, you have it. What is it that you've come to say?"

Tyrion finally looked at her again. His eyes slowly traveled up the length of her, from the hem of her gown to the top of her head. He seemed to be memorizing every last inch of her, though she wasn't quite sure why. He searched her eyes for a long moment before he finally spoke. "I only came here to Winterfell to make sure that you were well. I have no intention of staying. But before I started my life again, I needed to see you one last time."

Tyrion's words couldn't have been more cryptic, and Sansa didn't know what to make of them. "Why?" she asked. "Why leave at all? You're here now. And even though many years have passed since we last saw each other, you are still my husband, and Winterfell is yours by right."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't care about my rights, but I do care about you. I'm sure you've been through a lot while I was gone. I'm sure the last thing in the world you ever wanted was for your dead husband to show up in the middle of the night and disrupt your ordered life. You've suffered enough, Sansa Stark. You deserve your freedom, not a lifetime shackled to me."

"It's Sansa Lannister now, or had you forgotten?"

Tyrion laughed bitterly. "No, I've never forgotten. But maybe it's time that I did. Maybe it's time that you did too."

"Why are you doing this?" Sansa asked, the pain in her voice unmistakable. "Why did you come all this way if all you intended to do was abandon me again?"

"I'm not abandoning you," Tyrion said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "I'm giving you your freedom. I'm letting you go. I'm prepared to walk out of here tonight and pretend that I died back in Essos. I'll take a new name, start a new life. No one need ever know that I didn't die on foreign shores. I'm giving you what I can only imagine you've always wanted, the freedom to move on with your life."

The blood began to heat in Sansa's veins, and she fought to keep her temper under control. This was not at all the way she had imagined their reunion, and she had imagined it more times than she cared to admit. In her more romantic fantasies, she'd imagined Tyrion running into her arms, holding her, kissing her, telling her that not a day had gone by that he hadn't thought of her. The years apart had only made her grow fonder of him. The more the world had battered her, the more his past kindnesses had meant to her, until she'd clung to them for dear life in her darkest hours.

But this, this was not what she had expected. And it hurt more than Sansa could bear.

"You . . . you did come all this way just to abandon me again."

"What?" Tyrion seemed genuinely surprised by the accusation. "No, no, of course not." He took a step forward as if he meant to comfort her, but then, just as quickly, he stepped back. "I came here to find out what you wanted, where you were in your life. I thought, if given a choice, you'd want me to go."

"Well, you thought wrong."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed on her in quiet disbelief. He stared at her for the longest time as if he didn't quite understand what she was saying. Finally, he replied, "You can't possibly mean that."

Sansa straightened her spine in a show of determination. "I do."

"But why? Not that I'm not flattered. I am. But why would you want me to stay? What possible reason could you have for wanting me by your side?"

"You're my husband. Isn't that reason enough?"

"No, I can't say that it is. You can always get a new husband. As long as the world thinks I'm dead, there'll be no harm in it."

Sansa gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to say something biting and cruel. She was angry, oh so very angry, and she didn't want to lash out at Tyrion, even though he more than deserved it. She was a lady, after all, and she refused to lose her temper like a petulant child.

Sansa inhaled a calming breath before she finally spoke. "You may think that lying to the world is perfectly acceptable. You are a Lannister, after all. But I am a Stark, and Starks don't lie. We have honor, and we respect our duty, and we live by both. I am not about to lie to the world and tell everyone that my husband is dead when he is very clearly alive. I am not going to take another man as my husband while I am still beholden to you. You may leave Winterfell, if you wish, but that will not change anything for me. I shall remain as I am, ever faithful to my lord husband."

A biting laugh escaped Tyrion's throat, and he shook his head.

"What?" Sansa asked. "What about that do you find so funny?"

His expression suddenly sobered. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"It must be something. Do you doubt my faithfulness? Do you think me fickle and flighty like the girls in King's Landing?"

"No, I don't. But I do know that you have lived for many years believing that you would never see your husband again. And I know that I am not the only man who has ever shared your bed. I think your declaration would be much more convincing if you were honest about that."

Sansa balled her hands into fists at her side. She was dying to lash out at Tyrion, but she held back. Her fidelity, or lack thereof, had become a much-loved topic among gossipmongers all throughout Westeros. Sansa was surprised that Tyrion had already heard the rumors. She was surprised even more by the fact that he actually seemed to believe them.

"How dare you?" she said, the words low and venomous.

"Oh, quite easily, I assure you," Tyrion replied flippantly. But then, his tone suddenly turned serious. "Please, don't think that I'm judging you or that I hold it against you. I'm not, and I don't. But if you are going to make me stay, then I would at least like us to be honest with each other from the beginning."

"Make you stay?" she asked, her voice strained almost to the breaking point. "I can't make you do anything, can I? If you want to go, go. I won't stop you. But I'm not going to admit to something that isn't true just to make you stay. I'm not going to confess to some imagined sin just because you won't believe the truth."

"Sansa, you don't have to lie to me—"

A cry of pure feminine fury tore from Sansa's throat. "That's enough! Stay or go, I don't care, but I am not going to pretend that you are dead. If people ask, I will tell them the truth. I will not marry another man just so you can have your freedom. You will be as beholden to me as I am to you, whether you like it or not, Tyrion Lannister, because that is the promise you made when you covered me with your cloak in the Great Sept of Baelor, and now that you're back among the living, you must stay true to your vow. Just as I must stay true to mine."

Sansa didn't wait for Tyrion to reply. She turned around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She was trembling all over, her limbs shaking uncontrollably, and she thought she might be sick. She had waited so long, so very long, for Tyrion to return to her. She'd thought that their reunion would be so different, but it had been nothing short of a disaster. Tyrion didn't want to stay with her. He wanted to continue to roam free – free of duty, free of honor. He wanted to be a vagabond once more, a murderer in exile. Well, if that's what he wanted, Sansa wouldn't stop him. She wouldn't say another word to try to convince him to stay. If he wanted to go, he could go. Sansa was certain that Tyrion would be gone by morning and that she would never see him again.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Tyrion stood alone in Sansa's solar, staring at the closed door in complete shock. Never had he imagined that his reunion with Sansa would end like this. He had expected her to be relieved by his offer to set her free from their marriage, but instead, she had been offended. He wished now that he hadn't said anything about her infidelity. He should have stayed silent on the matter and just tried to talk her into letting him go. But no, he had been blunt. He had pushed for honesty, and that had been a mistake.

Tyrion dragged his eyes away from the door and looked around the room. The fire was still burning brightly in the hearth, and he was drawn to its warmth. Suddenly, he felt colder than he had while traveling the snowy road to Winterfell. He felt empty inside, hollow, broken. All he really wanted was a hot bath and a nice warm bed. It had been so long since he'd had either. Even though, a few minutes earlier, he'd been more than prepared to turn down Sansa's hospitality, now, he didn't think he had the fortitude to step out into the cold, dark night again.

All at once, the strength seemed to drain from Tyrion's limbs, and he collapsed onto his knees in front of the hearth, staring blindly at the roaring fire. He didn't know what to do anymore. He'd had everything all planned out, he'd been so certain about all of it, but now, he was floundering. Sansa was hurt, more than hurt, and he didn't want to leave with things still so bad between them. Perhaps if he gave her some time – a night, just one night – she might settle down enough to rethink her decision and let him go without any animosity between them.

But for now, Tyrion could do nothing but wait. He would wait until morning, and then, he would try to talk to her again, try to convince her to see things his way. He had to try, just one more time, for the sake of the good memories they shared, few though they were.

Tyrion didn't know how much time had passed when the door quietly opened again. Without even turning around, he knew it wasn't Sansa. He was certain she was too angry to even look at him at that moment. No, it was either Arya or a servant come to throw him out or to tell him that his chamber was ready.

The visitor was silent for some time, but finally, a familiar voice broke the quiet. "Are you coming?" Arya asked.

Tyrion continued to stare into the flames. "Are you going to toss me out into the cold?"

She laughed. "I probably should, but by all rights, you're the new Lord of Winterfell, so it wouldn't be my place to toss you out, even if I wanted to."

"The Lord of Winterfell," Tyrion said, the words like ashes on his tongue. He finally turned and looked up at Arya. "Tell me about the old Lord of Winterfell, the one who held the title before I got here."

"You mean Eddard?"

"Yes, Eddard Lannister. Tell me about him."

Arya moved farther into the room, finally closing the door behind her. "What do you want to know?"

"Whose child is he, really?"

"Yours."

Tyrion shook his head. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I don't know what you're inclined to believe, quite honestly. I don't know you that well. But I do know my sister, and I do know what my brother Bran has told me, and I believe them both when they say that Eddard is your son."

"What does your brother Bran have to do with this?"

Arya took a few steps forward, closing some of the distance between them. "Bran sees things, visions of the past, the present. He is the Three-Eyed Raven now. He saw Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark get married. He saw my Aunt Lyanna give birth to Rhaegar's rightful heir, Jon Snow. And he saw you and Sansa together, and he knows it is your child that she bore."

Tyrion stared at Arya in horror. The idea of Bran Stark seeing him and Sansa together stunned Tyrion to the very core. "That . . . that's absurd."

"It's not absurd. It's the truth. And Eddard is your son, whether you choose to believe it or not."

Tyrion hadn't even seen the boy yet, but he was already convinced that there was no feasible way the child could be his. According to Bronn, the boy was perfectly normal, nothing like the deformed little monkey that Sansa claimed had sired him. Besides, it seemed nearly all of Westeros thought Sansa had been unfaithful to Tyrion. Surely those rumors were grounded in some semblance of fact.

Of course, Tyrion didn't hold Sansa's infidelity against her. He understood that he was no woman's ideal of manhood and that even someone as dutiful as Sansa Stark might feel compelled to find comfort in the arms of another. But what Tyrion hated was the idea that Sansa was lying to him. The only good thing that had existed between them back in King's Landing had been the truth. They'd always been honest with each other – at least, he'd always thought they had – and he wanted that now. It was all he wanted, in fact. He wanted them to be open and honest with each other so that they could part on good terms.

"I've been told," Tyrion said, "that nary a soul in Westeros believes that child is mine. Why should I be any different?"

"Because you're his father. Because you know my sister. I know you weren't together long, but even so, you should know her better than that. She's a Stark. She takes her duty very seriously. As do we all. She would never be unfaithful, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it."

"It's a nice fairy story, isn't it?" Tyrion mused. "The beautiful maiden, beholden to the ugly dwarf, is so pure of heart, so virtuous, that even after he murders her handmaiden and disappears across the Narrow Sea, she still remains faithful to him. You know, I think I like the sound of that. I've never tried my hand at writing fairy stories for children, but maybe I'll write that one someday."

"So, you did murder her handmaiden."

Tyrion blanched. He'd known he should have left that part out. But he was no coward, and he wouldn't deny the truth now. "I did."

"Why?"

_Why._ Such a simple word, and yet, so perilous. "Why? I don't think I owe anyone an explanation, least of all you."

"You owe Sansa one. She still doesn't understand why you did what you did. Perhaps, before you abandon her again, you might explain yourself."

Tyrion didn't think he could explain himself. He'd spent five painful years trying to run away from the things he'd done before he'd left King's Landing. He knew that dredging it all up now just might cripple him. "It doesn't matter why I did what I did," Tyrion said. "It's in the past now, and I have no intention of remaining at Winterfell for very long."

"So you are staying the night then?"

Arya seemed less than inclined to let him stay now, but Tyrion didn't think he had the strength to venture out into the cold again. He felt very weak, and he didn't want to argue anymore. "Yes," he replied, "for your sister's sake."

"Ha!" Arya laughed, the sound mocking, bitter. "You haven't ever done anything for my sister's sake. You're just as selfish as the rest of the Lannisters. You can pretend all you want that it isn't true, but I know what you are. I know who you are. And if you do anything, anything at all, to hurt my sister, I will kill you."

Arya's voice was so cold, so threatening, that Tyrion didn't doubt her for a second. He knew, if he ever did anything to truly hurt Sansa, Arya would slit his throat while he slept. Suddenly, the cold, snowy night was looking a lot more desirable to Tyrion than a warm bed and a decent meal.

Tyrion finally pushed himself to his feet, relinquishing the comforting warmth of the hearth. "Perhaps it would be best if I found myself some lodging in the winter town for the night. I don't want to stay where I'm not welcome."

"And risk discovery? Absolutely not. It's not often we see dwarves in this part of the country. One look at you and the gossip will start."

"Then maybe you'd like to set me up in the kennels with the other dogs."

Arya laughed, though this time the sound was one of genuine amusement. "If only I could. But my sister would definitely have something to say about that in the morning, and I really don't want to cross her any more than you do."

"Afraid of your sister, are you?" Tyrion asked in challenge.

"Not afraid, no. Frankly, I just don't want to be bothered. I'm not particularly fond of hysterical females."

"Well, that makes two of us."

"Are you coming then?"

"Yes," Tyrion said with a regretful sigh. "Lead the way, Lady Arya."

Arya shuddered at the use of her title, but she didn't reprimand him for it. She just turned around, opened the door, and ushered Tyrion out into the corridor. "Your room is this way," she said as she started to walk, not bothering to slow her pace so that he could keep up with her longer strides.

Tyrion scrambled after her, walking as fast as he could without losing his footing. By the time Arya stopped at another door, Tyrion was nearly out of breath.

"These are your chambers," she said, "for now. There's food and a hot bath waiting for you. There are fresh clothes too, though I doubt they'll fit properly. Perhaps your wife will take them in for you before you leave. She does love to sew and mend."

"Thank you," Tyrion said, genuinely appreciative of the kindness Arya had chosen to bestow on him. "I am grateful for your help."

"Don't thank me. I'm just following my sister's orders. If it were up to me, I'd probably throw you out a window and let you sleep in the snow."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone picked me up and tossed me out a window. It's one of the perils of being a dwarf. People think they can just manhandle you at will."

"Well, you're safe for tonight, but only because the lady of the keep commanded it. Remember that."

Arya said nothing more. She didn't even wish him a good night. She simply gave him one last look of warning, turned around, and disappeared down the corridor.

Tyrion stood there for the longest time, watching after her. His limbs were stiff, and he felt numb all over. Now that he had finally started to warm up, his body was beginning to fail him. He feared, if he didn't move soon, he might collapse right there in the hallway.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally turned around and pushed open the door. His joints ached with every movement, but somehow, he managed. The instant the door was closed behind him, he sank back against it, taking a moment to get his bearings.

The chamber was surprisingly large for one given to an unwanted guest. There was a big bed in the center of the room, a roaring fire burning in the hearth, and a wooden tub full of steaming hot water just waiting for him to climb inside. From the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw a small table set with a tray of food and a flagon of wine. As much as he wanted to immerse himself in the waiting bath, more than anything, he needed a drink.

Tyrion pushed himself away from the door and staggered to the table, leaning against it for support. He lifted up the flagon, his arm shaking more than he would have liked, and poured himself a glass. He downed half of it in one gulp, taking comfort in the familiar warmth of the wine burning down his throat.

When he lowered the glass, his eyes unconsciously fell to the plate of food on the table, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He picked up a hunk of bread and tore into it, thankful to finally have something decent to eat.

Soon, he had downed two glasses of wine and had eaten his fill of bread and meat and cheese. When he was certain he could stand on his own again, he finally let go of the table and began stripping the clothes from his body. He'd been wearing the same garments for so long now that they were little more than rags. Bronn had offered to outfit him with a new tunic, breeches, and cloak before he'd left King's Landing, but Tyrion had refused, preferring to travel in peasant garb. No one had any interest in a beggarly dwarf. It was always safer to travel in rags than in finery.

Once he was naked, Tyrion slowly made his way across the room, careful not to let the weakness in his legs drag him to the floor. The tub had been placed near the hearth so that the water would stay as warm as possible. When Tyrion finally reached it, he climbed in and sank beneath the surface of the water, enjoying the feel of the heat seeping into his bones.

Tyrion sighed contentedly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hot bath. It must have been years. He had spent so long being poor and anonymous and itinerant that he could scarcely remember the luxuries of his past. This was one he had definitely taken for granted, and now, he was going to enjoy it to the fullest.

Tyrion knew he should scrub himself clean, wash the dirt and mud and sweat from his body before anything else, but he had no desire to move. The water was too intoxicating. So instead, he leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on the delicious warmth enveloping his body.

But the peace lasted only for a moment. The instant Tyrion's eyes were closed, all manner of wretched memories assailed his mind – doubts, fears, regrets. He could see it all as if it had happened just yesterday. Joffrey's death, Shae's betrayal, his father's mockery. He could feel Shae's necklace in his hands as he pulled tightly and strangled the life from her body. He could feel the kick of the crossbow as he let loose an arrow and coldly shot his father.

Tyrion shuddered, and his eyes flashed open. He stared at the flames in the hearth, wondering if he would ever find peace. But he already knew the answer. He would find peace when he was dead and not before.

Tyrion swore softly, cursing himself for a fool. He'd been a fool to ever believe that he could have even a single moment of happiness in this life. And he'd been a fool to return to Winterfell.

Knowing that he would get no rest in the tub, Tyrion sat up straight, reached for the bar of soap that had been left for him, and began to wash himself clean. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his arms shook with the effort, desperate to shed the grime from his skin. He dunked his head beneath the water, washing his hair vigorously, before dunking again to rinse out the soap. He washed his beard too, and for a moment, he thought about shaving it off, but there was no razor, and truth be told, he rather liked the beard. It had become something convenient for him to hide behind.

When the last of the dirt had been washed from his body, he finally got out of the tub and dried himself off. Then, he made his way toward the bed where a fresh tunic had been laid out for him. It was a fine white linen, finer than anything Tyrion had worn since he'd left King's Landing. He shrugged it over his head, enjoying its fresh scent as it settled over his weary body. It was a little too long, falling almost to his ankles, but it would do.

Tyrion was tempted to pour himself another glass of wine, but he was far too tired to even make it to the table. Instead, he climbed into bed, slipped beneath the covers, and stared blindly up at the ceiling above him.

He was reluctant to close his eyes again, dreading the nightmares he knew would come. But he was exhausted. It had been a long time since he'd slept in a warm feather bed, and he didn't want to waste the opportunity while he had it because, come morning, he would be leaving Winterfell for good.

For a moment, Tyrion's thoughts drifted to Sansa. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. Was she still furiously angry, or had she calmed down enough to stop spitting fire? He'd never seen her lose her temper before, but he hadn't been surprised by it. He'd always known that, deep down inside, she was just as fiery as her red hair. In fact, if he hadn't been the target of her fury, he might have found it almost arousing.

Tyrion turned onto his side and groaned into his pillow. Throughout their years apart, the single night he had spent in Sansa's bed had haunted him more than he cared to admit. He'd thought about it whenever he'd been feeling particularly low, and it had always made him feel stirrings in odd places. Sometimes, when he'd remembered that night, he'd even fooled himself into believing that it had been his name Sansa had whispered in the dark and not Loras Tyrell's. But Tyrion knew that was just a fantasy, a trick of his overactive imagination and faulty memory.

That one night had made him believe that he and Sansa might have had a chance at happiness, if only fate hadn't intervened. But it had, and now, their chance had long since passed. He would never share her bed again, and they would go their separate ways on the morrow.

Tyrion buried his head in his pillow and closed his eyes, praying for his demons to let him rest. He needed to sleep for just one night. He needed to suppress the pain and the memories and the regrets just long enough to fall into oblivion. He clutched the furs tightly in his fists and willed himself to sleep.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sansa barely slept that night. Not long after she'd stormed from her solar, Arya had come to her door, wanting to talk about Tyrion, but Sansa had been in no mood to talk. She'd sent her sister away without a second thought and had spent the rest of the night fuming.

Sansa couldn't believe that Tyrion had come all the way to Winterfell just to accuse her of infidelity and tell her he intended to abandon her again. That was not the Tyrion Lannister she had remembered, that was not the Tyrion Lannister she had been waiting five long years for. But then, her memories of the past grew hazier every day. Perhaps she'd just imagined his kindness, perhaps reality had been much different and she had simply been too naïve to see it.

Now, morning had come, and Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, fully dressed but unable to stir from her room for fear of seeing Tyrion again. She knew he had spent the night. Her handmaiden had told her when she'd come to help her dress. Of course, her maid didn't know their visitor's true identity, but it didn't matter. Sansa knew, and she had no desire to see him again.

Every muscle in Sansa's body suddenly tensed. Facing Tyrion Lannister in the harsh light of day was going to be anything but pleasant. She was certain that he was going to be even more ruthless now that he'd had a good night's sleep, and she didn't know if she was prepared for it. She wished that he had just left in the middle of the night as he'd originally planned. Then, she could have gone on hating him without ever having to see him again.

Sansa stared out one of the high windows on the wall opposite the bed. A light snowfall shimmered beyond the frosted panes, but she barely noticed it. Her heart was too broken for her to see or feel anything beyond her own suffering. If she'd had the luxury, she would have stayed in bed for the entire day and forgotten all about Tyrion Lannister, but she was the Lady of Winterfell, and she had too many responsibilities she simply couldn't ignore.

The peaceful silence of Sansa's chamber was suddenly broken by the sound of the door opening behind her. There had been no knock, no warning, just the gentle creak of the door moving on its hinges. Sansa knew who it was. There was only one person in all the world who would ever walk into her chamber without knocking. She inhaled a steadying breath, willed away the tears that had pooled in her eyes, and turned around to face her son.

Eddard was just closing the door behind him when Sansa turned around. She rose from the bed and walked across the room so she could be closer to him.

"Good morning, dear heart," she said, a smile brightening her face.

Eddard whirled around and instantly barreled toward her. Sansa dropped to her knees so that he could throw his arms around her neck and hug her tightly.

"Morning, Mother."

Sansa held Eddard close, one hand on his back, the other on the back of his head. She didn't ever want to let him go. He was the only thing she had that made her feel safe and whole and happy, and she would protect him with her very life.

Eddard squirmed in Sansa's arms, obviously wanting to be free, and she was finally forced to let him go. But she didn't let him go too far. She held him by the forearms, keeping him in front of her so she could look him over and make sure that he was safe and sound.

"You weren't at breakfast," he said. "Why weren't you at breakfast?"

Sansa smiled softly, not wanting Eddard to see the trouble in her eyes. "I didn't sleep well last night. I didn't wake until late, and I missed the morning meal. I'm sorry."

"Did you have nightmares?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Of course, she'd had nightmares, but Eddard didn't need to know that. "I just had a troubling night, that's all. But I'm fine now." Sansa quickly stood, taking Eddard's hand and leading him toward the door. Desperate to change the subject, she said, "Tell me, what do you have planned for the day?"

Eddard's demeanor instantly changed. The worry fled from his face, replaced by unbridled enthusiasm. "Aunt Arya is going to take me to the forest to hunt. She said she didn't want to stay in the keep today, so she's going to take me with her."

Sansa could only imagine that Arya wanted to make herself scarce to avoid Tyrion. She knew her sister was not happy about his return and probably wanted to get as far away from him as possible. If Sansa had been able to stomach the idea of going hunting, she might have asked to join them. She was in no mood to see Tyrion either.

"Well, be careful," Sansa replied. "And make sure you're home in time for your lessons. You don't want to keep Maester Wolkan waiting."

"I won't." Eddard pulled on her hand, encouraging her to bend down so that he could kiss her goodbye.

His gentle caress against her cheek made Sansa's heart swell with affection, and she almost sobbed at the contact. "Be safe, my love," she said as she stood to her full height. "I'll see you at the afternoon meal."

"Yes, Mother!" He turned around and bounded out of the room, a huge smile on his face, off to slay dragons – or woodland creatures, at least.

Sansa leaned her head against the doorjamb and sighed softly as she watched him go. Eddard was her greatest joy in life, and if anything ever happened to him, she didn't know what she would do. For years, little Eddard had been the only thing that had gotten her out of bed each morning, the only thing that had kept her going. If she hadn't had Eddard to care for, she might have given up a long time ago, let herself be crushed by the weight of the tragedies that still haunted her every day of her life.

Sansa stood there for the longest time, staring blindly down the corridor. It was already late morning, and she knew she had plenty to do, but she couldn't get Tyrion out of her mind. She wondered what he was doing at that very moment. Was he in his chamber, feasting and laughing, spewing epithets about his unfaithful wife? Or was he still abed, sleeping off the fatigue of countless weeks on the road?

Even though Sansa didn't want to face him again, she knew she'd eventually have to, and she didn't want to put it off for too long. The longer she waited, the more it would eat away at her. The sooner she got it over with, the better.

So, despite the gnawing anxiety in the pit of her stomach, Sansa went in search of her husband. She knew where he had spent the night. He'd been given one of the family chambers in the main keep, not a room in the Guest House. He was the Lord of Winterfell, whether he was willing to admit it or not, and it would have been shameful to treat him as nothing more than a visiting guest.

With unsteady legs, Sansa made her way to Tyrion's room. She stood outside his door for a long time, quietly listening for the slightest sound. But the door was too thick for any noise to carry through, and Sansa had no idea what she might find when she finally opened it. For a single instant, she imagined finding her husband beneath one of the village whores. Although no such women lived in Winterfell itself, there were plenty of them in the winter town. Sansa wouldn't have been at all surprised if Tyrion had snuck one in for the night, just to repay her for her supposed infidelity.

Sansa shook her head, quickly chasing away the thought. She knew she was letting her imagination get the better of her. The man she had found in her solar the night before had been weary from the road. The exhaustion – and the stench – had dripped off of him, and she doubted he'd had the energy to call for a whore to warm his bed. She was being petty and foolish, and she knew it. And she was better than that.

Sansa squared her shoulders and raised her chin just a fraction higher. If she was going to talk to Tyrion again, she would do it with dignity and grace. She wouldn't lose her temper. She wouldn't jump to conclusions. She would be calm and rational. She would listen to him, he would listen to her, and somehow, they would come to a reasonable understanding, whatever that might be.

Without letting another moment pass, Sansa raised her hand and knocked softly on the door. If Tyrion was asleep, she didn't want to wake him.

Sansa waited for an answer, but none came. She tried again, just in case he hadn't heard her the first time, but still, there was no reply.

Sansa bit her bottom lip, wondering if she should leave. If she left, she didn't know when she'd have a chance to talk to Tyrion again. She had many responsibilities as lady of the keep, and she knew she might not have another spare moment until after the evening meal. She hated the thought of putting off their meeting until then. Sansa made a quick decision, and slowly, quietly, pushed open Tyrion's door.

The room was dark except for the gentle glow of the fire burning low in the hearth. There were no candles burning, and the windows were still shuttered. All was quiet, and Sansa was careful not to make a sound as she inched into the room and eased the door closed behind her.

She scanned the semidarkness for Tyrion, spotting a small lump beneath the furs on the bed. She pushed herself away from the door and crept closer, wanting to get a better look at him. As she passed, she noticed the empty plate on the corner table, the half-full flagon of wine. Tyrion had obviously had his fill of food and drink before crawling into bed the night before.

Tyrion's clothes lay in a heap beside the table. They smelled almost as bad without him in them as they had when he'd been wearing them. Sansa would make sure to tell one of the servants to have them burned. Even if Tyrion decided to leave, he couldn't leave in rags. She would see him outfitted properly before he left Winterfell.

As Sansa neared the bed, she caught a glimpse of Tyrion's golden curls peeking out just beyond the covers. Even though Tyrion's hair was darker, it reminded her very much of Eddard's. They were so alike, her son and his father. It pained her to know that Tyrion didn't believe that Eddard was his. Perhaps, if Tyrion saw him—

Sansa couldn't finish the thought. She didn't want Tyrion to see Eddard, not with things the way they were between them. Once Tyrion was being reasonable, once things were more settled, she would introduce her husband to his son, but not before.

When Sansa finally reached the bed, she saw Tyrion's face just above the furs, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in fitful sleep. She wondered what he was dreaming about. Was it a nightmare? She had nightmares all the time, and she'd simply come to accept them as a normal part of life now.

Sansa took her time examining Tyrion's face. He had changed so much since she'd last seen him. He was older, of course, but it was more than that. He looked weary, haggard, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders even when he was at rest. The scar she had once found so frightening had faded considerably. It was still there, but it wasn't red and angry anymore. It was a thin, white line that spoke of a long-ago time best forgotten now.

The quiet of the room, the dim light, the intimacy, reminded Sansa of something else best forgotten. What a little fool she had been, all those years ago, when she'd asked Tyrion to bed her for fear of Joffrey. If only she had waited a little longer, she might have made it out of the Red Keep with her virtue intact. Joffrey had been murdered not long after she'd given herself to Tyrion, and Littlefinger had helped her escape. If only she had waited, she might now be married to a man who actually wanted her, instead of a man who was about to abandon her for the second time.

But then, if she and Tyrion had never consummated their marriage, she wouldn't have Eddard, and she wouldn't have the one beautiful memory she clung to in her darkest moments. It was all so very sad and tragic. She had waited so long for Tyrion to return, only to be rejected by him the moment he'd opened his mouth. Sansa had learned a long time ago to stop hoping for things that could never be. She'd been a fool to hope that Tyrion Lannister still cared for her. A sad, pathetic fool.

Sansa decided that it was best not to disturb Tyrion. He was obviously tired and troubled, and she didn't want to make matters worse for either of them. She turned away from the bed, intent on leaving before he awoke, but the sound of her name on his lips stopped her.

"Sansa." The word was soft, barely a whisper, but she heard it just the same.

Sansa turned around to look at Tyrion. He snuggled deeper beneath the covers, but he was still sound asleep. Was he dreaming about her? Sansa nearly laughed at the thought. If he was dreaming about her, he must have been having a nightmare, because she knew he held no softness in his heart for her.

Sansa turned around again, determined to leave, but her legs wouldn't carry her. She wanted to know what Tyrion was dreaming about, she wanted to wait and watch and listen. She wanted to see if he called out her name again, if he said anything more. She knew she would never have another opportunity to be alone with him like this, and she wasn't willing to give it up, not just yet.

Despite her better judgment, Sansa turned back toward the bed. She moved closer, easing herself down onto the edge of the mattress so that she could watch her husband. For some inexplicable reason, her fingers ached to reach out and touch him, to run through his hair, to caress his cheek. An unbidden sob escaped her throat, and she curled her hands into fists in her lap, resisting the urge to act on the impulse. How easy it would be to just reach out and touch him, to slip down onto the mattress beside him and beg him to show her comfort just one more time before he walked out of her life again forever. But Sansa couldn't do that. She wouldn't do that. She still had her pride, and that was enough to keep her sitting upright, her hands clenched in her lap.

As if he felt her restlessness, Tyrion began to move again. He fidgeted beneath the blankets, her name falling from his lips, "Sansa."

Sansa held her breath, waiting for Tyrion to say something more, but he didn't. Suddenly, his body twitched to life, his eyelids opened, and she found him looking back at her with hollow eyes.

They stared at each other for the longest time, neither one saying a word. Sansa didn't know what to say. She'd been caught spying, and she knew it, and there was no pretending otherwise.

The instant the shock wore off, Sansa slipped from the bed, standing up and smoothing out her skirts, trying her best to looked dignified. "You were talking in your sleep," she said in a mad rush. "I was concerned, and I wanted to check on you."

Tyrion pushed himself up into a sitting position, resting back against the headboard. The furs fell to his lap, leaving him exposed from the waist up. It had been a long time since Sansa had seen him in such a state of undress, and there was something oddly unsettling about it.

"I'm surprised that you were concerned at all," Tyrion said. "I thought you didn't care one way or the other what happened to me anymore."

"You are my husband," Sansa replied, her tone hardening just a bit. "It is my duty to care about your welfare."

Tyrion laughed. "Of course, the dutiful answer from the dutiful bride. Why am I not surprised?" He looked her over thoughtfully. "Tell me, dear wife, have you also come to fulfill your other wifely duties?"

Sansa's cheeks flushed warmly at the insinuation. She was shocked that Tyrion had even suggested such a thing, but then, Tyrion had always reveled in saying shocking things, so she really had no reason to be surprised now.

Sansa didn't know how to answer him, so she decided to play coy. "And what wifely duties are those, my lord?"

A bittersweet smile crossed his lips, but it was fleeting. "Oh, I'm sure you can remember. I know it was a long time ago, but something like that, you never forget."

Sansa did remember, better than he thought. She wondered what he would do if she told him that she was there to share his bed. Would he laugh at her? Would he reject her again? Sansa was nearly certain that he would.

"Is that what you want, my lord?" she asked in challenge. "For me to service you?"

The question hung in the air between them like an executioner's axe – heavy, unwieldy, deadly. Tyrion's eyes narrowed on her, ever so slightly, as if he was trying to read her emotions. Was he tempted to say yes? Did he want her to slip into bed beside him and perform her wifely duties? Did he want her at all?

Tyrion moistened his lips, then cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "No, that's all right. You don't need to do anything. I'm fine."

Sansa sighed, her shoulders slumping with the effort. She was surprised to discover just how disappointed she was by Tyrion's answer. After everything he had said the night before, she should have been happy to be spared sharing his bed, but she wasn't. It had been so long since she'd known the comforting touch of anyone but Eddard and Arya, and their hugs and kisses were not like Tyrion's. Eddard and Arya made Sansa feel like a mother hen. Tyrion made her feel like a woman. And she missed that more than she wanted to admit.

Sansa stepped back from the bed, suddenly feeling smothered by Tyrion's rejection. She tried to act calm, as if it hadn't bothered her in the least. She prayed he couldn't see the disappointment in her eyes.

"You've missed breakfast," Sansa said, looking idly about the room, trying to avoid his gaze. "Would you like me to have something brought to you?"

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"It's no trouble."

Another silence settled between them, nearly as awkward as the last. Finally, Tyrion said, "What are you doing here, Sansa. Really?"

"I told you, I came to check on you. That's all."

"Do you always check on your guests by sneaking into their rooms and watching them sleep?"

Sansa's heart beat a little faster, and she finally forced herself to look at Tyrion again. "You're not a guest, you're my husband. And the last time I saw you, you looked like something one of the dogs had dragged in. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. Don't worry, it won't happen again."

"You're right, it won't," he said. "Because I won't be here another night. I'm leaving right after breakfast."

And suddenly, they were back to that. Sansa had hoped that Tyrion had changed his mind since the last time they'd spoken, but obviously, he hadn't. She didn't understand why he was in such a hurry to leave. He had come a very long way to see her. Why didn't he want to stay even for a little while?

"So," Sansa said, "you've made up your mind then?"

"It hasn't changed since last night."

"And do you still intend to play dead for the rest of your life and force me to live a lie?"

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in the bed, and Sansa could tell that she'd struck a nerve.

"I understand the dictates of your Stark pride," Tyrion said, "but pride can only take you so far in life. Think about what you're asking, Sansa. Really think about it. Do you really want to be married to all of this," he held his hands out to his sides as if presenting himself to her, "for the rest of your life?"

"You are my husband, Tyrion Lannister. We were wed before all the lords and ladies of King's Landing, and although most of them are now dead, the fact remains that I am still your wife. We consummated our marriage. We brought a child into this world. Just because you are in denial about it, doesn't make it any less true. I, for one, do not run away from my problems, or from the truth, but then, I'm not a coward like you."

The words were out of Sansa's mouth before she could stop them, and Tyrion physically winced in response. She knew it wasn't exactly fair to accuse him of cowardice. Yes, he had fled Westeros and gone into exile, but he'd had very good reason for doing so. He'd had the courage to stand up for himself during his trial for Joffrey's murder. And he'd had the courage to put an end to Tywin Lannister's life when no one else would do it. But he was threatening to abandon her now, and she desperately needed to change his mind.

"Yes," Tyrion said softly, "I am a coward. I don't think anyone has any doubts about that, least of all me. But I'm not leaving because I'm a coward. I'm leaving because I think it's what's best for you."

Sansa laughed bitterly. "Please, don't do me any favors."

"I'm serious. You don't want to be married to me, not after the things I've done."

"I know the things you've done."

"No, you don't. Not all of it. And hopefully, you never will. You deserve to be happy, Sansa. After everything you've endured, you deserve it more than most. I don't want to take that away from you. If I leave, if I pretend that I never returned, you can start over, have what you've always wanted, a handsome prince by your side, true love, all of it."

Sansa shook her head, never breaking Tyrion's gaze. "You don't have any idea what I've always wanted, do you?"

He shifted on the bed again, sitting up taller against the headboard. "As I seem to recall, you were always a fanciful girl, a romantic. Although you thought you loved Joffrey once, what you really loved was the idea of him, the man you thought he was. You wanted to be the heroine of an epic ballad, beautiful and fair. You wanted to be swept off your feet by a handsome prince and live happily ever after. That was always your dream, wasn't it?"

"Dreams change. People change."

He eyed her curiously. "Did your dream change?"

"It did. Long after you left. So don't tell me what I want, Tyrion Lannister. I'm telling you what I want. I want you to stay. I want you to take your rightful place as the Lord of Winterfell, and I want you to be a father to your son. That is my dream."

Tyrion scowled the moment she mentioned Eddard, and it felt like a dagger piercing Sansa's soul.

"But that is not my dream," Tyrion replied. "I don't want to be the Lord of Winterfell. I don't want a wife who only wants me because it is her duty to do so. And I don't want to raise another man's child. I'm sorry, Sansa. I truly am."

Had Tyrion stopped before bringing Eddard into it, Sansa might have been able to control her temper. But as it was, she could feel the blood heating in her veins. She didn't care so much what Tyrion thought of her, but the fact that he could deny his own son made her angry in a way she couldn't even put into words. "You haven't even seen Eddard yet," she said, her jaw so tight that her mouth barely moved.

"I don't need to see him. I've heard the rumors. And if he's as perfect as I've been told, there's no way he's my son, which is probably a blessing for him. The boy deserves better than a murderous, lecherous, drunken dwarf for a father. And you deserve better for a husband. Please, Sansa, find someone else and just let me go."

Sansa didn't know what to say. She was so livid that she couldn't even speak. She turned on her heel and slowly walked toward the door, forcing herself to remain as calm as possible. She feared if she gave rein to her baser emotions, she would storm from the room like an angry child.

Sansa finally reached the door, her fingers slipping around the handle, the metal cold against her bare skin. The sensation had a slightly sobering effect on her, and she wondered if she should try, one last time, to reason with her husband.

Exhaling a calming breath, Sansa released the handle and slowly turned around to look at Tyrion again. He was still in bed, staring at her from across the room.

It took all of Sansa's resolve to force herself to speak. "I know you don't want anyone to know who you are. And I have no intention of revealing your true identity to anyone while you're here. But since you are here, and you've come all this way, you should meet Eddard, just once. I know you think all the rumors are true. I know you think the worst of me. But it's the least you can do after everything you've put me through. I want you to meet him. I want you to look in his eyes and then tell me that he's not your son. If you really believe that he's not yours, what do you have to lose? You'll see him, you'll deny him, and at least I'll know that I tried to give my son his father back. At least I'll know I tried."

By the time she was done, there were tears in Sansa's eyes, but she ignored them as she waited for Tyrion's reply. He was staring at her with a pained expression, and she wasn't sure if it was pity or guilt that she saw on his face. She really didn't care which it was as long as he agreed to her request.

"This really means that much to you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Yes, and I don't think it's too much to ask."

Tyrion nodded. "All right, I'll meet the boy. But then, I'll be on my way."

"Arya's taken him out hunting this morning. Then, afterwards, he has lessons with Maester Wolkan, but he should be free just before the afternoon meal. I'll come and fetch you when he's ready. All right?"

Again, Tyrion nodded, though this time, he didn't say a word.

Sansa quickly turned around and slipped out of the room before she was tempted to say anything more. She didn't want to keep arguing with Tyrion. That wasn't the way to fix what was wrong between them. Whether he decided to stay or decided to go, she wanted him to at least acknowledge that Eddard was his son, and she wanted his permission to let the world know that he was still alive. Sansa didn't want another husband. She wanted the one she already had, the one she'd been waiting five long years for. Even if Tyrion did ultimately decide to abandon her again, if he gave her what she wanted, he would at least leave her with some semblance of peace. There would be no more wondering, no more waiting, and her precious son would finally have the legitimacy he'd so long deserved.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Tyrion didn't see Sansa again for several hours. He spent the day resting in his room, eating and drinking and trying to imagine what it was going to be like to meet little Eddard Lannister. He knew what Sansa wanted now. She wanted legitimacy for her son. She wanted Tyrion to publicly declare that the boy was his, even though, by rights, he was the legal father simply because he was her husband and Eddard had been born after they'd been wed.

Tyrion was afraid to face the child, not because he didn't like children – he had loved Tommen and Myrcella with all his heart and mourned their loss every day – but because he knew he wouldn't see himself in the boy, and it was going to break his heart.

How wonderful would it be to believe that Sansa Stark had born him a son? A healthy, beautiful boy who was strapping and strong. But Tyrion knew that wasn't likely. The gods had already proven how much they hated him by making him a dwarf and killing his mother the very day he'd been born. They would not look kindly on him now and suddenly start bestowing blessings upon him just because he had survived longer than he'd had any right to.

No, Tyrion was certain – just as certain as Bronn and the rest of Westeros – that the child wasn't his. He would take one look at the boy and know it in an instant. He would see Sansa in little Eddard, of that he was sure. But he'd also see some other man. Maybe Littlefinger, maybe a stranger. Either way, it would hurt, and Tyrion wasn't quite prepared for it.

When Sansa finally came to fetch him, it was just past noon. Tyrion had been dressed for hours, putting on the ill-fitting tunic and breeches that had been left for him in his chamber the night before. The clothes were obviously meant for a child, not a man, but he was sure they were the closest thing to his size the servants had been able to find. Before Tyrion left the north for good, he would have to stop in the winter town and find someone to tailor them so that he could at least travel in comfort.

"He's ready for you," Sansa said as she stood in the open doorway, her back rigid, her eyes masking her emotions.

Tyrion had forgotten how good she was at hiding her own pain. She'd become an expert at it during her time in King's Landing, and he knew he would have to remember that.

Tyrion took one last sip of the wine in his hand and climbed down from the chair beside the table. He looked up at his wife, but she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"This way, my lord."

Ah, so it was back to _my lord_, was it? If Tyrion had been so inclined, he would have insisted that she call him by his given name, but the more formality between them, the better. It would make it easier when he finally left Winterfell and they went their separate ways.

Sansa led Tyrion through a maze of corridors, and he couldn't keep track of where they had been and where they were going. It had been a long time since he'd explored the halls of Winterfell, and he didn't remember them as keenly as he would have liked.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a large door at the end of a long corridor. All was quiet, not a single soul to be seen down the entire length of the hall.

Sansa finally turned toward Tyrion again. This time, she met his gaze, though it felt almost as if she were looking through him. "With winter come," she began, "we were never able to repair the library tower, so Maester Wolkan had all the remaining books moved to this chamber. When he's not outside pretending to kill White Walkers or ride dragons, Eddard spends most of his time in here."

"Does he know who I am?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa shook her head. "I told you I would keep your identity a secret, and I meant it. I'm always true to my word."

"And is he prepared to see a dwarf walk into his own personal sanctum and disturb his peace?"

"I think he'd enjoy it very much, actually," Sansa said with a hint of a smile.

It was the first time Tyrion had seen her smile since he'd returned to Winterfell, and it was like a balm to his weary soul. For a moment, he lost himself in Sansa's smile, his mind wandering to happier times, before they'd both lost so very much.

"All right, then, my lady. Lead the way."

Sansa turned and pushed the door open. She quietly stepped inside, allowing Tyrion to follow behind her. The room was quite small, the walls lined with only half a dozen bookcases, the shelves empty here and there. Winterfell's library had been decimated the night someone had tried to murder Bran Stark. Tyrion wasn't surprised that, in the chaos of the wars that had followed, no one had yet to restore it to its former glory.

Tyrion didn't see the boy at first. Sansa still stood in front of him, and all he could see was a long table and a couple of comfortable chairs beside the hearth. It wasn't until Sansa stepped aside that Tyrion caught his first glimpse of the child.

Little Eddard Lannister was lying on the floor, a huge volume tucked under his folded arms, his head bent forward as he poured over whatever it was that he was reading. One page of the book was all words, but the other was a detailed drawing of a soaring dragon, and Tyrion could only imagine that it was some kind of history book, the kind that he had enjoyed reading as a child.

Tyrion didn't let that fact affect him in the least. He turned his attention to the boy, examining every last inch of him. His hair was as blond as spun gold, a curly mop of sunlight shining like a halo around his head. His limbs were long and well-proportioned. Even lying down, Tyrion could tell that he was particularly tall for his age. Definitely no dwarf's child. Definitely not his son.

The boy didn't look up as Sansa and Tyrion stepped farther into the room. He was too engrossed in his reading to even notice their presence.

"Eddard," Sansa said softly, "come here. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Eddard's head snapped up, and Tyrion saw his face for the first time. There was no denying his Tully blue eyes. They were every bit his mother's. His features, however, were not quite as delicate, and there was an endearing chubbiness to his face that Tyrion knew would fade with time. His hair was so blond and his face was so innocent that he almost looked like Tommen. But Tyrion knew that was just wishful thinking on his part. All children looked sweet and innocent at that age, even the broken ones like Joffrey.

Eddard's eyes grew wide the instant they settled on Tyrion. He scrambled to his feet, his gaze never wavering. He looked like he had just seen a dragon for the first time, or some other mythical creature, and it made Tyrion feel like little more than a spectacle.

"Come here, Eddard," Sansa coaxed.

With slow steps, the boy skirted around the book and made his way toward them. As he approached, his eyes traveled from the top of Tyrion's head to the tips of his toes, absorbing every last detail with hungry curiosity.

"You're a dwarf, aren't you?" the boy said without waiting for any kind of introduction. "I've never seen a dwarf before."

"Eddard, that isn't polite," Sansa scolded. "Apologize at once."

Tyrion laughed. "There's no need for that. I am a dwarf. Why shouldn't the boy point it out? Everyone else does."

"I'm not a boy," Eddard said. "I am the Lord of Winterfell."

Tyrion couldn't argue with that. "Yes, I know. Eddard Lannister."

"And who are you?"

Tyrion wasn't sure how to reply. He didn't know what Sansa had told her son about him, and he was afraid to say the wrong thing. But ultimately, Tyrion didn't have to answer at all, because Sansa answered for him.

"He came here to deliver a message," she said, "but he'll be leaving soon, and I thought you might want to meet him before he goes."

"Oh, yes, I've always wanted to meet a dwarf," Eddard replied, his eyes still transfixed on Tyrion. "Thank you, Mother."

"Why don't you sit down and show our visitor the book you've been reading?" Sansa suggested. "I think he might find it quite interesting."

Tyrion cast a sidelong glance at Sansa. He had no desire to sit down with the child and read a book. He had agreed to meet the boy, that was all. He sure as hell had no intention of getting to know him.

"Oh, he doesn't have to do that," Tyrion protested. "I really must be going sooner rather than later."

"But Aunt Arya said it's too snowy to travel," Eddard interjected. "She even made us come in early from our hunting trip."

Eddard pouted, just a bit, and Tyrion fought the urge to roll his eyes. If Sansa thought she was going to induce him to stay by parading her precocious little son in front of him, she was about to be sorely disappointed. Adorable or not, Tyrion had no intention of getting attached to the boy.

But before Tyrion could offer another word of protest, a chubby little hand wrapped around his own and started pulling him toward the center of the room.

"Come on," Eddard said, "I'll show you my book. It's my favorite."

Tyrion looked pleadingly at Sansa, begging her to extricate him from his predicament, but she just smiled back at him.

"You two boys have fun," she said. "I'll be back for you when the afternoon meal is served." And then, without another word, she slipped from the room and closed the door behind her.

Tyrion's heart sank as he realized just how trapped he was. A moment later, Eddard was sitting at his feet, tugging his hand and urging him to sit beside him and look at the book.

Tyrion didn't know what else to do but to sink down onto the carpet beside Eddard. He didn't want to hurt the boy or offend him. Eddard was an innocent and needed to be treated as such, regardless of who his father was.

"Do you like dragons?" Eddard asked.

"Dragons?" Tyrion's mind was worlds away, and he was having difficulty focusing on the present.

"Yes, dragons. Like Queen Daenerys' dragons – Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon. They're all gone now, but I did get to see them fly once. It was like magic. Have you ever seen a dragon?"

Tyrion looked down at Eddard with a bittersweet smile. "No," he said, "never." Tyrion had always wanted to see a dragon, and had he returned to Westeros before the end of the Great War, he might have had his chance. But now, the very last of the dragons were gone, having perished in the war with their beloved queen, and it was just one more regret Tyrion had in a life full of regrets.

"Well," Eddard replied, "you can look at them in this book." He moved the book so that it was now in front of Tyrion and started pointing out all the ways in which the illustrator had gotten things wrong – the eyes were too large, the spikes too sparse, the tail too short. Apparently, the little Lord of Winterfell was now an expert on dragons having seen them fly just once.

Tyrion sat cross-legged on the floor, only half listening to Eddard regale him with his knowledge of the legendary creatures. Tyrion was fascinated, not so much by what the child had to say, but by how he said it. There was a tone to his voice that was oddly familiar, a keenness in his eyes that reminded Tyrion just a little bit of himself. Being near the boy made him feel the connection acutely, and for one brief instant, he wondered if Sansa had been telling the truth all along. But he dismissed the idea just as quickly. He had never fathered a child before – not that he was aware of, at least – and he was certain that if he had, he could never have produced a child as beautiful as little Eddard.

Tyrion examined the boy quietly, searching his face for any hint of his true paternity. The one thing Tyrion didn't see in him was Littlefinger. There was no hint of the smarmy bastard anywhere in the boy, and it was a great relief. Tyrion didn't know what Sansa had endured after she'd left King's Landing, but he was certain that most of it hadn't been pleasant. He couldn't imagine all the lies Littlefinger had told her during their time together, but he knew it was a miracle she wasn't more jaded after having spent so much time under Littlefinger's thumb.

"Do you know magic?" Eddard asked, suddenly breaking through Tyrion's thoughts.

"Magic? Why would I know magic?"

"You're a dwarf. Don't dwarves know magic?"

"Not that I've ever heard. Perhaps you're confusing us with fairies or elves. We're not mythical creatures. We're people, just like you and your lady mother."

"My father is a dwarf," Eddard said offhandedly, his eyes still focused on the book.

The breath seized in Tyrion's throat, and for a moment, he thought he might suffocate. He had to force himself to breathe again, the effort more difficult than he had imagined. "Your father?"

"Yes, Tyrion Lannister. He's a great man. He fought in the Battle of the Blackwater and killed the evil Lord Tywin. My mother says he's a hero."

Tyrion was stunned silent. Sansa had told Eddard that he was a hero? Tyrion could scarcely believe it. But then, what mother didn't want to fill her child's head with grand stories about the man who had supposedly sired him? Even if it hadn't been Tyrion's seed that had brought the boy to life, Eddard still carried his name, and as far as society was concerned – officially, at least – he was his father.

Tyrion was curious to see what the boy actually knew about him, so he asked, "And where is your father now?"

"Away, across the Narrow Sea." Eddard finally flipped the page in his book, his eyes fixated on yet another drawing, this one more lurid than the first.

"Have you ever seen him?"

"No. He went away before I was born. Mother says he might come back someday. I hope he does."

Tyrion fell silent. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, ask the wrong question. It was obvious that Eddard believed Sansa's story just as much as Arya did. Did that mean that it was true, or just that Sansa wanted it to be true? Tyrion shook his head, chasing away the thought. He focused his attention back on Eddard, hoping to learn something more from the boy.

"And does Lady Lannister want him to come back?" Tyrion asked, unable to stop himself.

"Oh, yes," Eddard said, looking up at Tyrion with eager eyes. "Just as much as me. I'm hoping when he comes back, he'll bring me a dragon from the other side of the world."

Despite Eddard's reassurances, Tyrion doubted that Sansa had been counting the days until his return. But he couldn't say that to the boy. Instead, he replied, "I've been to the other side of the world. There are no dragons left."

Eddard frowned. "Then I hope he brings me a little brother. I want a little brother, and Mother says I can't have one unless Father comes home."

Tyrion suppressed a laugh. The tales Sansa Stark had told her son were growing taller by the minute. "I'm not sure that's how it works," Tyrion said. "I don't think your father can just bring you home a baby."

"Well, then he and Mother can make one. They made me. They can make another."

Tyrion was suddenly struck by the intelligence he saw in Eddard's eyes. The boy was so keen, so eager, so certain. Tyrion had to look away, lest he start believing something he'd be a fool to believe.

Without a hint of warning, Eddard asked, "Do you know my father?"

Tyrion locked his eyes on the book, staring at the image of a blue and green dragon setting fire to a small village, the inhabitants running for their lives in the foreground. He saw the picture, but he didn't see it. His mind was too preoccupied with other things. "I know Tyrion Lannister, yes," Tyrion said flatly, his eyes still focused on the book.

"Is he a hero?"

"He . . ." Tyrion didn't want to lie to the boy in any way, so he used his cunning to avoid answering the question directly. "I'm sure your father is everything your mother says he is, brave and strong and heroic."

_Whoever he might be._

"Do all dwarves know each other?" Eddard asked.

The boy had a gift for asking impertinent questions, but Tyrion was starting not to mind. "No," he replied with a genuine laugh, finally looking at Eddard again, "not all dwarves know each other."

"I'm hoping my brother is a dwarf," Eddard said as he began idly flipping through the book. "That way, I would always be bigger than him, and I could protect him and keep him safe, even when he couldn't protect himself."

"Well, yes, that's one way of making sure that you're never overshadowed by your younger brother. But I'm sure, if you had a brother who wasn't a dwarf, you'd love him just the same, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes, but I'd much prefer it if he was."

Tyrion was fascinated by the way Eddard's mind worked. There was a formality about his speech and his manners that reminded Tyrion very much of Sansa, but he was also unabashedly blunt in his opinions, as peculiar as they were, and Tyrion admired that fact.

Not wanting to give Eddard any kind of false hope, Tyrion replied, "I don't think that's what the gods have planned for you, I'm afraid."

"Why? My father's coming back someday. I know he is. And then we'll all be a family – mother and father and Aunt Arya and my baby brother. And Winterfell will be a happy place again, like it was before the White Walkers came. I know it will."

Tyrion sighed heavily. He leaned back, resting his palms against the floor, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The unwavering hope in Eddard's voice was heartbreaking. He truly believed the fairy story his mother had told him. He thought, one day, his father would return to him and they'd all live happily ever after.

For a moment, Tyrion suddenly wished that it was all true. He wished that he was the hero that Eddard believed him to be. He wished that he could give the boy everything he'd ever dreamed of, but he couldn't. He was no hero. He was barely even worthy of drawing breath. Eddard deserved better. He deserved a father who was worthy of him, a man he could truly be proud of. And maybe he would find that one day, once Tyrion was long gone and Sansa had finally found someone deserving of her.

Eddard looked up at Tyrion when he failed to reply. "Don't you believe me?"

The last thing in the world Tyrion wanted to do was destroy a child's dreams, so he said the only thing he could say, "For your sake, I hope you're right. The gods have never been kind to me, of course, but maybe they'll favor you. After all, you are a Stark, and even though the Starks were nearly wiped out by the war, you're still here and your mother's still here and Lyanna Stark's son is on the Iron Throne. Perhaps those are all signs of good things to come."

"I'm not just a Stark. I'm also a Lannister," Eddard said proudly, sitting up a little bit straighter.

Tyrion caught his breath, surprised that a Stark could ever take such pride in calling himself a Lannister. It was the last thing in the world Tyrion had ever expected, and he didn't know quite how to respond. "Well, you do have the Lannister name, don't you?"

"Yes, just like my father and my uncle Jaime."

"Do . . . do you know your uncle Jaime?"

"Oh, yes. He was here at Winterfell when the White Walkers came. He's a hero too. He helped save the north, and cousin Jon gave him Casterly Rock because he was so brave and strong." Eddard went back to his book again. "He wasn't afraid of anything, and he told me a great many stories about my father. I like him a lot."

A sudden rush of air escaped Tyrion's throat, something between a laugh and a sob. So, Jaime had been at Winterfell? Had helped bring down the White Walkers and saved Westeros? Of course, Bronn had told him nearly the same thing, but hearing it from the mouth of a child somehow made it more real. Tyrion suddenly imagined Eddard sitting on Jaime's lap, listening to stories about their childhood. It was hard for Tyrion to believe that Jaime would have made such an effort if he hadn't truly believed the boy was his blood. But then, maybe he'd only done it because he'd missed his own dear children so very much.

Tyrion wanted to ask Eddard more about Jaime, but he didn't get the chance. Without warning, the door suddenly opened, and Sansa stepped into the room. "The afternoon meal is ready," she said. "It's time to put the book away."

Eddard closed the book and scrambled to his feet, taking the large volume with him. It was nearly half his size, but he held it lovingly, as if it weighed little more than a feather. When Tyrion finally stood, Eddard offered him the book.

"Would you like to borrow it?" he asked. "It belongs to the library, but Mother won't mind if you take it for a while, as long as you don't take it out in the snow."

Tyrion was flattered by the offer, as unexpected as it was, but he had no intention of staying at Winterfell long enough to read the book. "I think it might be best if we left it in the library. I wouldn't want to see anything happen to it. But thank you just the same."

"All right," Eddard replied, a touch of disappointment in his tone. He turned away then and waddled across the floor, the weight of the book throwing him slightly off balance. When he reached the nearest bookcase, he slipped the book onto one of the low shelves. Tyrion was surprised by how dutiful the boy was, but then, he was Sansa's son, and if there was one word that described Sansa Stark, it was dutiful.

When Eddard returned, he went straight to his mother. "Can my new friend eat with us?"

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but Tyrion cut her off.

"Oh, no," he said, "that's quite all right. I shall take my meal in my chamber, if it's all the same to you."

But Sansa wasn't going to let him escape so easily. "I think it would be quite nice if your new friend joined us, Eddard. Why don't you run along to my solar? I will meet you there."

"Yes, Mother." The boy turned and looked up at Tyrion again. "You'll come too, won't you?"

The hope in Eddard's eyes was undeniable, but Tyrion knew he couldn't give him the answer he wanted. So instead, he replied, "Apparently, I need to have a word with your mother before I do anything else. Do as she says and run along now."

Tyrion could feel Sansa's eyes boring into him, but he did his best to ignore it. He watched as little Eddard Lannister turned around and raced out of the library. The moment he was gone, Sansa closed the door behind her, and Tyrion knew they were in for another difficult talk.


	9. Chapter 8

Author's Notes: First, I just want to thank everyone who has made it this far. Thank you all for reading and for your lovely words of support and encouragement! The response to this story has been far beyond what I ever expected, and I am happy to know that so many people are enjoying it!

Of course, I know what most everyone is hoping for at this point, Tyrion to accept that Eddard is his son. As much as I would love for that to happen sooner rather than later, Tyrion just isn't ready yet. He's still suffering some deep psychological trauma. After killing his father and the woman he thought he loved, he went to Essos and has had nothing to do for five long years but drink and hate himself. Tyrion's determination to believe that Eddard isn't his son has a lot more to do with his self-loathing than it does with his lack of faith in Sansa. Tyrion can't believe that anyone would want him at this point, and he pretty much thinks the gods are setting him up to be the brunt of some cruel joke. So unfortunately, it's going to take a long time before Tyrion is finally able to accept the truth.

* * *

Chapter Eight

The library was deathly quiet as Sansa and Tyrion stared at each other across the silence. Outside the unshuttered windows, the snow was falling in wailing gusts all around Winterfell, but it was nothing compared to the tension that had built up inside the small, cloistered room.

"Well?" Sansa asked, desperate to know what Tyrion thought now that he had finally met his son.

"Well, what?"

"You know what."

Tyrion sighed heavily, breaking her gaze and running a hand over the back of his neck in agitation. "He's a fine boy," Tyrion said when he finally looked at her again. "Smart and robust and tall. Very tall."

"I am very tall," Sansa countered, her words as cold as the wind howling outside the windows.

"Yes, and I am not. There's no way—"

"There's every way."

Tyrion shook his head. "I know what you want me to say, my lady. I know why you shut me up alone with the boy. You wanted me to be charmed by him, to believe, for some unfathomable reason, that he is my son when he is clearly not."

"Clearly? Is it that it's clear, or is it that you're just unwilling to see the truth?"

"You and I were only together once—"

"All it takes is once."

"You spent more time alone with Littlefinger than you ever did with me."

"Littlefinger?" Sansa nearly choked on the word. Of course, she had heard the accusation before, but it hurt even more coming from Tyrion. "Littlefinger is not Eddard's father, I can assure you."

"Then someone else," Tyrion said with a resigned shrug of his shoulder, "but not me. You spent a long time in the Vale—"

"Trying to hide, trying to survive. Do you really think I went to the Eyrie to find myself a lover? I was already with child when Joffrey was murdered. Eddard was born nine months after you and I were together."

Tyrion didn't reply, and Sansa could see that she wasn't getting through to him. There was something distant in his eyes that told her he had already made up his mind about everything.

"Why do you find the truth so hard to believe?" she asked, utterly confounded by Tyrion's obstinance.

"Eddard is a fine child," he replied. "He's going to make a wonderful Lord of Winterfell someday. But look at me," Tyrion glanced down at himself before meeting her eyes again, "do you really expect me to believe that I helped make him? He's perfect and beautiful . . . and tall. And everything that I'm not."

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but Tyrion cut her off.

"I'm not angry with you, Sansa. I'm not judging you for what you might have done while we were apart. It doesn't matter to me. But I can't believe that Eddard is my son. I just can't. And there is nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind, so please, just let it go."

His words were like a knife to her heart, and for a moment, Sansa couldn't even speak. In her fantasies, she had imagined Tyrion coming home, meeting his son, and being overjoyed to know just how much they had both longed for his return. But this, this she hadn't expected. Of course, Tyrion thought Eddard wasn't his son. Half of Westeros thought Eddard wasn't his son. Not only had Sansa had ample opportunity to cuckold her husband, but Eddard was as far from a demon monkey as it was possible to be. Although others couldn't see the resemblance between him and Tyrion, Sansa could. She saw it every time Eddard laughed and every time he said something clever. He was Tyrion's child, whether Tyrion wanted to believe it or not, and Sansa didn't know how they were going to move forward if Tyrion refused to accept the truth.

"So, I suppose that means you still intend to go then?" Sansa asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes, as soon as the weather lets up."

"It's a bad storm. Maester Wolkan said it will probably last for days."

"Then perhaps I will find a room in the winter town and wait out the weather there."

Although there was an inn in town, Sansa could only imagine that Tyrion intended to get himself a room in the local brothel. That was what he was renowned for, wasn't it? Drinking and whoring? Sansa was disgusted by the idea, but she knew she had little hope of stopping him. She was certain Tyrion had not been faithful to her while he'd been across the Narrow Sea, so why should he start being faithful to her now?

"You're welcome to stay here, if you like," Sansa offered. "You'll be more comfortable."

"No, not really. I can't say that anything about this place makes me feel comfortable."

Sansa suddenly felt the urge to cry, but she fought back the tears, not wanting Tyrion to know just how much his words had hurt her. He'd been back at Winterfell for less than a day, and already, their relationship was in tatters. She didn't know how things had gone so bad so quickly, and she had absolutely no idea how to fix them.

"Well, then," Sansa said, "I won't force you to stay, but there is one thing I must ask of you before you go."

"You've already asked one thing," Tyrion replied, holding out his hand toward the spot on the floor where he had sat beside Eddard, "and I granted it. Now, you want something more?"

"I want your permission to tell Jon that you're alive. I don't want to be a widow anymore. I don't think that's too much to ask."

"You may not think so, but I—"

"You've been gone for five years, doing gods-only-know what. I bore you a child and have had to endure nothing but ridicule and accusation for it. My honor has been slighted, my very character questioned. All I am asking is for you to stand up, stop being a coward, and admit to the world that you are alive so that I don't have to spend the rest of my life living a lie. That's all I ask."

Tyrion's brow furrowed, and he stared at her in quiet contemplation. When he finally spoke, he said, "You're asking a great deal."

"Am I? What does it matter to you if people know that you've returned, alive and well? You still intend to leave, and I won't stop you from going. Go, live your life, drinking and whoring until you die. I don't care. But I won't pretend that I am free when I am not. And I won't take a new husband while I am still married to the old one. I am a Stark, and I have my Stark pride, and I'm not giving it up for you or for anyone else. You owe me something, after all the years I spent waiting for you. At least give me this."

Tyrion pressed his lips together, and Sansa was sure he was fighting back the urge to swear. She knew he wanted to move on with his life, that he didn't want to be fettered to her and Eddard and Winterfell for the rest of his life, and that wasn't what she was asking. The night before, that's what she'd been asking, but not now. Now, she was just trying to salvage what little she could for herself. At the very least, she wanted the world to know that he was still alive, that he was still her husband.

"You took a vow," Sansa said. "Just because you were gone for five years doesn't mean that you aren't still beholden to it."

Tyrion sighed. "Sansa—"

"Tyrion."

"Are you sure this is what you want? I understand that you have no desire to live a lie, but it's a small price to pay for your peace of mind. This is your only chance to be happy, Sansa, to live your life as you see fit. If you tell Jon the truth, that's it. It's over for you. You will be beholden to me until one of us dies. You'll never find your knight in shining armor, your prince charming. This," he held his hands out to his sides, "this is it. This is all you'll ever have."

Sansa wanted to tell him that that was quite enough for her, but she didn't. She knew he wouldn't believe her. Over the years, he'd become her idea of a knight in shining armor – the brave, gentle soul who had shown her kindness and compassion in her darkest hours. He had given her the single greatest gift she had ever received, Eddard. And she was certain, had he been willing to stay, she could have been quite content with him by her side.

"I am not a little girl anymore," Sansa replied. "I am not waiting for a charming prince or a knight in shining armor to come along and rescue me. I've rescued myself. And now, I want what's rightfully mine. Are you willing to give it to me?"

"Only if you're certain it's what you truly want."

Sansa straightened her spine, an unconscious signal that she had more than made up her mind. "It is."

"Then, who am I to deny you?" Tyrion asked. "You're right, it's the least I can do. You may send word to Jon."

Sansa was instantly overcome with relief. She had won a small victory, but it was more than she had expected to win. "Thank you," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady, lest Tyrion sense just how much his words had affected her. "And we should send a raven to Casterly Rock as well. Your brother Jaime is there, and he will be glad to hear the news."

"It's already been done."

Sansa was surprised by Tyrion's reply. "Has it?"

"Yes, right before I left King's Landing for Winterfell. I wrote to Jaime and told him that, once my business here was through, I intended to make my way to the Rock."

"Is that still what you intend to do?"

"Of course. But it seems I'll have to wait longer than I expected, thanks to these damned northern winters."

"And what do we do about Winterfell?"

"I beg your pardon?" Tyrion seemed genuinely confused by the question.

"By rights, you are now the Lord of Winterfell. And if we are going to inform the king that you are alive, then our bannermen should know as well, and the smallfolk, of course."

"And little Eddard?"

"Yes. And Eddard."

Another silence fell between them. Their conversation had come full circle, and neither one of them was comfortable with it.

"He wants a baby brother, you know?" Tyrion said awkwardly, his eyes suddenly unable to meet hers.

"Yes, he's told me that many times. He has some silly idea that dwarves are magical, and he'd very much like one for a brother."

"He also seems to think that I'm some kind of hero," Tyrion added, looking up at her again. "I wonder where he got that notion."

After everything that had happened between her and Tyrion, Sansa was unwilling to admit that she had been the one to put the idea in Eddard's head. She didn't want Tyrion to question her motives for telling Eddard that he was a hero. "Well," she replied, "children often have quite fanciful imaginations. Sometimes, it's difficult to tell where their ideas come from."

Tyrion eyed her shrewdly, as if he didn't believe a single word she had said. "Of course."

Sansa looked away, gazing idly about the room, wondering where they could go from here. Finally, she forced herself to look at Tyrion again and asked the one question she was most afraid to ask, "So, shall we tell Eddard the truth then?"

"You mean that I'm not his father?" Tyrion said with a laugh.

Sansa scowled, and Tyrion instantly sobered.

"It was a joke," he said, in an obvious attempt to pacify her.

"Well, it wasn't funny."

"No, I suppose not."

Tyrion fidgeted on his feet, and Sansa knew he wanted to run. He felt trapped, she could see that, but they were both trapped in this situation – Tyrion with a family he didn't want, and Sansa with a husband who didn't want her. It was perfect.

"All right," Tyrion finally conceded, "tell the boy. Tell all of Winterfell. I suppose, if I'm stuck here, it's only a matter of time before someone figures it out anyway. I mean, how many dwarves are there in the world, and how many of them have ever made it this far north? Someone's bound to make the connection eventually."

"Will you be staying in the keep, or are you planning to get a room in the local brothel?" Sansa asked before she could stop herself.

Tyrion nearly choked. "Well, that was cold, wasn't it?"

"It's what you do, isn't it? At least, from what I've heard."

"I'm sure you've heard a lot of things that aren't necessarily true."

"I've heard a lot of things that I wish weren't true, but that's a conversation for another day. Are you staying or not?"

Tyrion's eyes turned toward the row of high windows running along the far wall of the library. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky outside was dark, the snow falling heavily beyond the window panes. Tyrion looked back at Sansa. "I don't think I fancy going out in that, to be honest. I'm so short, I'd likely get buried the instant I step foot outside. No, if it's all the same to you, I will stay at Winterfell until it's safe to travel."

"And do you plan to continue to hide in your chamber, or will you be taking meals with the rest of us?"

"I would rather limit my interactions with those who live in the keep, for the time being. I don't plan to be here long anyway, and I'm not looking to make any connections that will soon be broken."

Tyrion meant Eddard, of course. He didn't want to get close to his son, to get to know him. Sansa knew that, once Eddard discovered Tyrion's true identity, there would be no keeping the boy away from his father, but Tyrion didn't need to know that. Even if he skipped every single meal with the family, Tyrion would have to face Eddard again, whether he wanted to or not.

"Well, then," Sansa said, "I will have your meals brought to your chamber." Her eyes slid down the length of him, taking in his clean but ill-fitting clothes. "And I will send a seamstress as well. We can't have the new Lord of Winterfell looking like a peasant."

"Oh, I don't know," Tyrion said, examining the simple linen garments he wore. "They're not so bad. I just wish they fit better."

"I'll send someone to your room to measure you. You'll have new clothes by morning."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't want any poor, old washerwoman spending the entire night hunched over a needle and thread just so I can have something to wear. What happened to the things I came in?"

"I had them burned. They were beyond repair. You need a new wardrobe, and I will see to it."

Tyrion grimaced, though he made no further protest. Sansa didn't understand why he was so opposed to claiming his rightful place as the Lord of Winterfell. He had murdered the Hand of a King, and yet, upon his return to Westeros, he had a title, a wife, a child, and a keep waiting for him. He should have been on his knees, thanking the gods for their blessings. But instead, he wanted to eschew everything they had given him. It made little sense to Sansa, but she was done arguing for one afternoon.

"I will leave you now," Sansa said. "I'll send a raven to Jon after luncheon, and then, I'll talk to Eddard."

"As you wish, my lady." Although there was no derision in Tyrion's tone, he couldn't have spoken with less enthusiasm.

Sansa took one last look at him, knowing she was doing the right thing, but hating the fact that all her dreams had been destroyed. She had wanted so much from Tyrion, expected so much, and he had let her down. She would have to remember never to get her hopes up again.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Tyrion stayed in his chamber for the rest of the day and long into the night. Sansa had been good to her word, sending not only his meals to his room but a seamstress as well. The old woman had addressed him as "my lord," but had given no other indication that she'd known who he was, and Tyrion had begun to wonder if Sansa had revealed the truth to her people or if they still believed he was just a messenger.

Until their conversation in the library, it had been Tyrion's intention to leave Winterfell without ever revealing his identity to a single soul. But the blizzard raging outside was treacherous, and he would have been a fool to try to traverse it simply to avoid his duty. And he did have a duty to Sansa, he knew that now. He had committed himself to her in the Great Sept of Baelor, and for better or for worse, as long as he lived and breathed, he was still beholden to her.

Of course, that didn't mean he had to stay by Sansa's side, but it did mean that he couldn't pretend he was a faceless, nameless vagabond anymore. He was Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Winterfell, and with that came certain obligations he could no longer ignore.

Tyrion sat in a straight-backed chair before the hearth, staring into the roaring fire, a glass in his hand, his mind clouded with unpleasant thoughts. He hoped to stay in his chamber until the snow let up – whether that be in three hours or in three days – and then be on his way. He didn't know what Jon Snow would think when he received word that the Imp of Casterly Rock was still alive. Although Sansa seemed to think Jon would welcome the news, Tyrion had his doubts. All he needed was for Sansa to tell Jon just how unhappy she was, and he might find himself being dragged back to King's Landing to stand trial for any manner of crimes. Tyrion didn't want to think about it too much. He felt like a caged animal just waiting to be slaughtered and skinned for someone else's supper.

The quiet solitude of Tyrion's chamber was suddenly broken by a soft, low rap at the door. The hour was impossibly late, so late, in fact, that Tyrion had been certain the entire keep was already abed, but evidently, he'd been wrong.

For one insane, irrational moment, Tyrion thought it might be Sansa. He knew she wanted nothing to do with him, but her son wanted a baby brother, and Tyrion was under the impression that she would do just about anything to make the child happy. But Tyrion quickly dismissed the thought. After everything he had said to her since his return, he was certain that Sansa despised him, and he knew she would never share his bed again.

Before Tyrion could answer, the door began to open, and he leaned over the edge of his chair so that he could see the door from over his shoulder. "Who's there?" he asked, his heart beating an anxious rhythm.

There was no answer, just the pad of tiny footfalls as Eddard took a few unsteady steps into the room. He had his big book of dragon tales in one arm and was trying to push the door all the way open with the other. He looked like he was going to topple over at any moment.

Tyrion's heart lodged in his throat. The last time he had seen Sansa, she had told him that she intended to reveal his identity to Eddard, and Tyrion was suddenly scared to face the boy. He feared what Eddard might do or say if he now knew the truth.

And yet, Tyrion couldn't let the child continue to struggle, so he quickly put his glass on the table beside his chair and scrambled to his feet. He rushed forward, reaching for the book. "Here, let me help you," he said, plucking the heavy volume from the child's arms.

"Thank you," Eddard said as he finally got the door all the way open and toddled into the room. He turned around and pushed it closed behind him, using both hands to move the heavy wooden door.

Tyrion sighed. This was not at all how he'd wanted to spend his night. Sleep had been elusive, of course, but he'd hoped to drink at least another flagon of wine before the sun came up.

"What are you doing here?" Tyrion asked, his voice quavering slightly. "Shouldn't you be abed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Eddard replied as he turned around again. "Mother said you would be leaving as soon as the snow stopped, and I wanted to finish showing you my book."

"And did your mother say anything else about me?" Tyrion had to know.

"No," Eddard answered, shaking his head, his golden curls swaying with the movement.

Tyrion exhaled a relieved sigh, thankful that Sansa hadn't revealed his identity to the boy. It would be a lot easier to leave Winterfell if Eddard didn't know the truth, easier for Tyrion and easier for Eddard.

Before Tyrion could say another word, Eddard asked, "Can we read the book again?"

Eddard's eyes were so damned earnest that Tyrion just couldn't resist them. They were so much like his mother's eyes.

"All right," Tyrion said. "I can't sleep anyway. Let's read some of this book."

Eddard's face instantly brightened, and he raced to the big bed in the center of the room.

Tyrion had intended for them to sit on the rug by the hearth, but apparently, Eddard had other ideas. It was obvious that what he really wanted was a bedtime story, and it had been a long time since Tyrion had told anyone a bedtime story. The last time it had been Tommen and Myrcella curled up beside him. This time it would be Sansa Stark's precocious little son.

Eddard scrambled onto the bed, scaling it like Bran Stark had once scaled the walls of Winterfell. Tyrion walked across the floor, placing the book on the mattress before climbing up himself. Together, they settled back against the headboard, the book so large that, when Eddard opened it, it covered both their laps.

"Where would you like me to start?" Tyrion asked, idly flipping through the pages. Although he hadn't noticed it earlier, the book looked oddly familiar, and Tyrion suddenly realized that it had been one of the books he had read on his last trip to Winterfell.

"Read me the one about Aegon I and how he used his dragons to conquer Westeros. That one's my favorite."

"All right then, Aegon I it is."

Tyrion turned a few more pages, and Eddard hunkered down at his side to listen to the story.

For Tyrion, there was something oddly comforting about having a child curled up beside him. With Eddard's head bent over the book, only his golden curls visible from the corner of Tyrion's eye, Eddard looked just like Tommen, and it was easy for Tyrion to pretend that he was back in King's Landing, telling dragon stories to his beloved nephew. It was easy for him to pretend that the last eight years had been nothing more than a bad dream, if only for a moment.

"There it is!" Eddard exclaimed, pointing one chubby finger at the page as soon as it came into view.

"Indeed, it is." Tyrion cleared his throat and began to read.

The story was an old one, one Tyrion had heard told and retold many times, but it never got boring. Dragons were fascinating creatures, as were their Targaryen masters. Within minutes, Tyrion was as deeply engrossed in the story as Eddard, and he read with a passion and a fervor that he hadn't felt in a long time.

He read about Aegon and his sisters sweeping into Westeros and laying waste to all who opposed them. He read about the burning of Harrenhal and the invasion of Dorne. It was all quite thrilling, even after so many years, and Tyrion was surprised to find that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

As they reached the climax of the story, Eddard gripped the sleeve of Tyrion's nightshirt, clinging to him for dear life.

Tyrion looked down to find that Eddard's knuckles had gone white. He gently patted the boy's hand to comfort him. "It's all right," Tyrion said. "It's almost over."

Eddard clutched his shirt even tighter. "I know. This is the best part."

Tyrion chuckled and went back to reading, leaving Eddard exactly as he was. Tyrion finished the story with all the fire and gravity that a tale of dragon conquest deserved. When he was done, he closed the book and leaned back, feeling oddly satisfied for some strange reason.

Eddard finally relinquished his hold on Tyrion's sleeve. "Read me another. Please, please."

Tyrion shook his head, unable to chase the smile from his face. "No, I think that's enough for one night. What if your mother discovers you're not in bed?"

"She won't come looking for me till morning. Read me another, please."

Had the hour not been so late, Tyrion might have acquiesced, but as it was, he was finally growing tired and he didn't think he possessed the stamina to give the performance that Eddard was expecting.

"I'm a tired old dwarf," Tyrion said. "I'm afraid I don't have the energy to read you another one tonight."

"Then I'll read you one." And before Tyrion could protest, Eddard opened the book again and started turning the pages, looking for his own tale to tell.

Tyrion cringed inwardly. He'd had children read to him before, and it was always an ordeal. They'd stumble over the same word a dozen times before he'd have to intervene and do the reading for them. He was in no mood for such altruism tonight. All he really wanted now was sleep. "Don't you think you'd rather save it until morning? It's very late."

"Don't worry. I'm not tired," Eddard reassured him.

A moment later, the boy settled on the story of his choice and began to read. His voice was loud and clear, his inflections highly dramatic, as if he was determined to put on a performance every bit as theatrical as Tyrion's had been. He breezed over the words, reading as if he'd been born with a book in his hand.

Tyrion was beyond impressed by Eddard's knowledge of the written word. He had never known a child who was so well-versed in his letters. Well, except for one. But Tyrion refused to make any more comparisons between himself and the little boy sitting next to him.

As Eddard wove his tale, Tyrion finally began to relax again. Instead of staring at the illustrations as Eddard read, Tyrion watched the boy intently. His eyes were bright, his face enraptured by the words as he flew over them. Had Tyrion had a son, he would have wanted him to be just like Eddard – smart, clever, passionate, stubborn. Tyrion wondered which of those traits the boy had inherited from his mother and which had come from the man who had sired him.

Tyrion didn't know how long he sat there watching and listening, but when Eddard was finally done, he looked up at him for approval.

"Well?" Eddard asked.

"That was brilliant. Are you sure you don't want to join a mummers' troupe? You'd make a marvelous actor."

"No," Eddard replied without giving the matter a second thought. "I am the Lord of Winterfell. I will stay here all of my days."

"Well, if that is what you wish, then I hope that is what the gods grant you. Now," Tyrion said, closing the book for him, "you really should run along and get some sleep before your mother finds out about this."

"Can I stay with you?" Eddard asked as he burrowed down deeper into the mattress.

"No, you definitely cannot stay with me."

"But why? I like you. You're good at telling stories."

"Yes, well, there will be time for more stories tomorrow. But for now, you must go."

But Eddard was determined to stay. He pushed the book farther onto Tyrion's lap, then slipped under the furs before Tyrion could stop him, nestling himself against one of the pillows.

Tyrion fought the urge to swear. "This is highly unconventional," he argued. "Maybe you should go crawl into your mother's bed."

Eddard yawned, pulling the covers up against his chin. "No, I'll stay here," he said. Then, he closed his eyes and exhaled a contented sigh.

Tyrion didn't know what to do. He had never expected the boy to fall asleep in his bed. Eddard had put him in an awkward position, and he wasn't sure how to get himself out of it.

Tyrion knew he couldn't move Eddard even if he wanted to. The boy was more than three-fourths his height, and there was no way Tyrion would be able to carry him off the bed if he didn't want to go. But Tyrion didn't want to spend the rest of the night in the chair either. He was thoroughly exhausted now, and all he really wanted was a comfortable bed and a good night's sleep.

Without allowing himself to think too much about his own motives, Tyrion eased the book from his lap and pushed it to the bottom of the bed. It was damned heavy, and he didn't feel like getting up just to move it.

Once the book was out of the way, Tyrion lay down atop the furs beside Eddard, resting his head on his own pillow and turning so that he could face the boy. Eddard was already fast asleep, and Tyrion took his time examining him thoughtfully, looking for what he knew Sansa wanted him to see.

There were traces of Lannister in him, even a blind man could have seen that, and for a moment, Tyrion's heart stilled in his chest. Had Joffrey gotten to Sansa after they'd been wed? Had he forced her to—?

Tyrion shook his head, chasing the thought away. If Joffrey had raped Sansa back in King's Landing, she would have been too traumatized to hide the truth. She would never have been able to keep it a secret, and Tyrion would have ended up murdering Joffrey himself. No, Joffrey wasn't Eddard's father. But if not Joffrey, then who?

At the time Eddard must have been conceived, there had still been plenty of Lannister men roaming about Westeros. If the boy had Lannister blood, his father could have been any one of them. Surprisingly, the person Eddard most reminded Tyrion of was Jaime, but Tyrion knew that Jaime would never have betrayed him like that. It was the only thing in the entire world that Tyrion knew for certain.

Of course, there was a part of Tyrion that knew he was avoiding the obvious conclusion. The gods had always been cruel to him. There was no way in the seven hells that they had suddenly decided to take pity on him and bless him with a beautiful wife and a beautiful child. No matter how much he longed to believe that Eddard was his son, he simply couldn't. He didn't deserve what was being offered to him, and he was terrified to let himself feel even the slightest pang of false hope. He had done that many times before, and it had never ended well.

No, Tyrion decided that he would stop looking for hints of himself in the boy because, even when he found them, they just made him feel more uncertain. Tyrion had been a fool too many times in his life. He was done being a fool. He would not believe, he _could not_ believe, that Eddard was his son, for fear of having his heart shattered again.

Tyrion exhaled a defeated sigh and finally allowed his eyes to close. He focused on the soft, sweet sound of Eddard's breathing as he slowly drifted off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The next morning when Sansa entered her solar to join Eddard and Arya for the morning meal, she was surprised to find Arya sitting all alone. Ordinarily, Eddard was the first one at breakfast each morning. He took considerable pride in dressing himself and sitting at the head of the table, waiting for his family to join him, always eager to behave like a proper Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa sat down beside Arya and waited for Eddard. When the food arrived and Eddard didn't, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of Sansa's stomach and she immediately went in search of her son.

Sansa headed straight for Eddard's bedchamber. As soon as she reached it, she threw open the door and rushed inside. The room was empty, the bed was in disarray, and the clothes that had been laid out for Eddard the night before were still lying on the chest at the foot of the bed.

Sansa's heart pounded against her ribs, and she raced from the room, practically running back to her solar. Although Eddard was a spirited child, he took his responsibilities as lord of the keep very seriously. Sansa knew he would never go anywhere without her approval, knew he would never disappear without a word.

"Did you find him?" Arya asked as Sansa skidded into the room. Arya didn't even bother to look up from the table. She was too busy eating her breakfast.

"He's not in his room," Sansa said, the panic rising in her voice. "His bed hasn't been made, and his clothes are still there."

Arya seemed wholly undaunted by this information. "Have you checked with Tyrion?"

"Tyrion?" Sansa had completely forgotten about Tyrion. She'd been too worried about Eddard's disappearance to think about anything else.

"Yes, Tyrion. You might want to check with him before you go alerting the guards."

Had Sansa not spent the past year living with Arya, she might have been put off by her sister's seeming indifference, but she wasn't. It was obvious that Arya knew something that Sansa didn't. But then, Arya seemed to know everything that went on at Winterfell even before it happened.

Sansa inhaled a steadying breath, willing herself to remain calm. Without a word, she turned around and left her solar, heading straight for Tyrion's chamber.

Sansa traversed the hallways with hurried steps, fighting the urge to run. When she finally reached Tyrion's door, she stopped for a moment, trying to get her bearings. This was the second time in two days she had started the morning by going to his room, and she didn't want him to misconstrue her intentions. She wasn't there because she wanted to see him. She was there because she was looking for Eddard, and for no other reason.

Sansa didn't bother to knock. She was simply too anxious, and she didn't have the patience to wait for Tyrion to answer. She needed to know if Eddard was in Tyrion's chamber before another moment passed.

Slowly, quietly, Sansa pushed the door open, peeking around the edge just far enough to see inside. The room was much as it had been the previous morning, though this time, there were two bodies in the bed, not one.

Sansa exhaled a sigh of relief as her eyes settled on little Eddard snuggled beneath the covers. "Oh, thank the gods," she whispered. She leaned her head against the door, suddenly needing it for support.

Sansa knew she should go, leave Eddard and Tyrion to their rest, but she was utterly entranced by the sight of them. They were both sound asleep, little Eddard beneath the furs, Tyrion above, Eddard's beloved book of dragon tales at the foot of the bed. Sansa didn't know how they had ended up in that position, but she was sure she could imagine. Her heart surged with emotion, and she had to fight back the tears as she quietly watched her son and her husband lying fast asleep on the bed. It was something Sansa had thought she would never see, and it affected her profoundly. Tyrion had denied Eddard in every way he could, but when it had come down to it, he'd done the right thing. He hadn't sent the boy away, he'd welcomed him to spend the night, and it gave Sansa the tiniest sliver of hope that, perhaps, they could have a happy future together after all.

As enchanting as the scene before her was, Sansa knew she couldn't stand there all morning just staring at the bed. She decided she would let Tyrion and Eddard sleep for as long as they liked. She was sure they were both exhausted, and they simply looked too serene to disturb.

As Sansa began to pull the door closed, it creaked on its hinges, and she cringed inwardly, hoping the sound hadn't woken them. But before she could make her escape, Tyrion's voice broke the silence.

"Sansa?"

Sansa's heart beat a little faster, and she stopped her retreat. She was tempted to ignore him, but that was the coward's way out. Instead, she inched the door open again and stepped into the room. Tyrion was on his feet by the time she closed the door behind her. He rounded the bed and crossed the floor, stopping directly in front of her but leaving a considerable distance between them.

"I know this looks rather odd," Tyrion said, his voice low and quiet. It was obvious that he didn't want to disturb Eddard any more than she did.

"No. There's nothing odd about it."

"What are you doing here?"

"Eddard didn't come to breakfast. When I went to his room, his bed was empty and his clothes were still there. I had no idea where he'd gone, then Arya suggested that I check with you."

Tyrion fidgeted on his feet. "I told him he couldn't stay. But he wouldn't listen to me. The boy's damned stubborn."

Sansa fought back a knowing smile. "Yes, I know."

"He came in here with that book and wouldn't leave until I read him a story. And then, he insisted upon reading one to me. At that point, he was so deeply ensconced in the bed that I couldn't have moved him if I'd tried."

It was hard for Sansa not to grin at Tyrion's supposed misfortune. Although he was trying to pretend that he was annoyed, his performance wasn't particularly convincing. "Well, I'm sorry if he inconvenienced you. I'll have a talk with him, and I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Tyrion turned his head and looked at Eddard, still sleeping soundly on the bed. "I didn't say that. He's a child who loves to read. It would be terrible to quash that impulse just because it's inconvenient. I wouldn't want to discourage his enthusiasm for the written word."

"Of course," Sansa replied, wishing she could laugh but holding herself back. She had just offered to keep Eddard away from Tyrion, and yet, he'd given her a perfectly good reason not to. If Tyrion had really wanted nothing to do with his son, he would have seized upon the opportunity to exile Eddard from his chamber once and for all.

"Tell me something," Tyrion said, turning back to look at her. "Why haven't you told him yet?"

Sansa didn't need to ask Tyrion what he was talking about. He obviously knew that she hadn't revealed his identity to Eddard yet. She'd tried the day before – oh, how she had tried – but she hadn't been able to find the right words. Tyrion had every intention of leaving Winterfell as soon as possible, and Sansa feared what it would do to Eddard to finally have the father he had always wanted and then lose him a few days later. Sansa knew that Eddard had to be told the truth, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Well?" Tyrion prompted when Sansa didn't reply.

"I don't know how to tell him."

"You'll have to tell him soon, before the servants figure it out and he hears gossip in the hallways."

"The sooner I tell him, the happier he'll be. But I fear . . ." Sansa wasn't sure she should continue. She didn't want Tyrion to think that she was trying to manipulate him, because she wasn't. But the words had to be said. "I fear that if he knows the truth, he'll be happy for a time, happier than he's ever been in his life, but the moment you leave, it will devastate him beyond repair. I'm scared to hurt him like that. He means everything in the world to me, and I don't want to see him suffer any more than he already has."

"Then maybe we shouldn't tell him. Maybe it would be best if I left now. I know the weather is bad, but surely, I could get as far as the winter town without issue. It's just beyond the gates. I could go now, and Eddard need never know who I am."

Sansa shook her head. "No. This is his one chance to know you for who you really are. I'm not going to take that away from him. Years from now, I don't want him to hate me when he finds out that the kind man who visited Winterfell when he was a child, the one who read him bedtime stories about dragons, was really his father and he never knew it. That would just be cruel.

"I'm not kind," Tyrion said, the words so low that Sansa wasn't sure she was meant to hear them.

"You are, Tyrion. You could have barred your door against Eddard last night, but you didn't. You let him in, and you were kind to him. Just as you were always kind to me."

There was regret in Tyrion's eyes as he stared back at her, regret and something else that she just couldn't name. "But it wasn't enough, was it? It wasn't enough to save you from heartache or suffering."

Sansa knew they both had regrets. Although Tyrion had done his best to protect her and comfort her when they'd first been married, his father and Joffrey had done all they could to make her life a living hell, including murdering her mother and brother. While Sansa was certain that Tyrion had not been involved in that horrific plot, he hadn't been able to stop it either, or to make things better once the dreadful deed had been done.

"We are all in this world to suffer," Sansa said. "I didn't always believe that, but the last eight years have taught me that lesson. The best any of us can do is try to ease each other's suffering. And you did try when we were in King's Landing. You were kind to me, and patient, and understanding. I haven't forgotten that. And I won't forget the kindness you've shown Eddard either."

"What do you want, Sansa?" Tyrion asked, his eyes narrowing on her in question. "What do you really want?"

"I want you to stay. I want us to be a family. Gods know, I've already lost so much of my family. I don't want to lose anyone else."

"But your dreams—"

"I've told you I've outgrown them. They were the silly dreams of a silly little girl, and that's not what I want anymore. I want my husband and my child and Winterfell. That's what I want, and nothing else will ever make me happy."

Tyrion stared at her, his eyes glassy with disbelief. She could tell that he wanted to say something but that he just couldn't find the words. All he managed was, "Sansa . . ."

There was a sudden rustling on the bed, and Sansa turned away from Tyrion to look at Eddard.

He scrambled from beneath the furs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand. "Mother?"

Sansa spared a glance at Tyrion. He was still staring at her as if her words had meant something to him, something deep and profound. She moved toward the bed, turning her attention back to her son, afraid to look at Tyrion for too long. She had said too much, and she knew it. Now, she just wanted to pretend that it had never happened.

"You gave me quite a scare," Sansa said to Eddard. "I thought someone had stolen you from your bed."

"I'm sorry. I just came for a bedtime story." Eddard strained his neck, looking all about the room for Tyrion who was half hidden by the tall footboard at the bottom of the bed. "Has he gone?"

"No, no," Tyrion answered. "I'm right here." He walked around to the opposite side of the bed, stopping directly across from Sansa.

"Oh, good," Eddard replied. "I was afraid you left without saying goodbye."

"No, I wouldn't do that. You're the Lord of Winterfell after all. You should know everything that goes on in the keep. I would never sneak out without saying a proper farewell."

Eddard turned to Sansa. "Have I missed breakfast?"

"No, it's still waiting for you. Come," she said, holding out her arms to him, intending to carry him from the room. "Let's leave Lord Tyrion alone for a while. We've bothered him enough for one morning."

Eddard's eyes widened in disbelief. "Lord Tyrion?"

Sansa's heart froze, and a cold flush swept her entire body. She hadn't realized what she'd said until Eddard had questioned it. How could she have been so foolish? She hadn't been thinking clearly, and she'd just made a terrible mistake.

Eddard's eyes darted to Tyrion, and when Sansa turned to look at her husband, she saw his head bent toward the floor, as if he was afraid to face his son.

"Tyrion Lannister?" Eddard asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Sansa didn't know how to respond, what to say or what to do. Eddard was staring at Tyrion in amazement, and Tyrion looked as if he wanted to run.

"Are you Tyrion Lannister?" Eddard asked again when no one replied.

It took Tyrion a moment, but finally, he raised his head and met Eddard's eyes. "I am."

Eddard's bottom lip began to tremble, and Sansa thought he might try to speak, but he didn't. A second later, he jumped off the bed, launching himself at Tyrion and throwing his arms around his neck. In Eddard's unbridled enthusiasm, he nearly knocked Tyrion to the floor.

"Eddard!" Sansa rounded the bed, horrified by her son's rash behavior.

By the time she reached them, Tyrion had regained his balance and was holding Eddard awkwardly in his arms. He looked highly uncomfortable, but he made no move to push the boy away.

"I knew you'd come back," Eddard mumbled against Tyrion's neck. "I just knew you would!"

Tyrion stared at Sansa over Eddard's shoulder. His expression was blank, nearly unreadable. She knew this wasn't what he wanted, but the truth was out, and there was no way to take it back.

Eddard continued to cling to Tyrion, rambling on about how happy he was to finally have his father home. It wasn't until the initial shock wore off that Tyrion finally lowered Eddard to the ground.

"I'm glad that you're so happy to see me," Tyrion said, his hands wrapped around Eddard's upper arms, holding him in place. Even from several feet away, Sansa could see that Tyrion was shaking, and she wondered if he was holding onto Eddard to reassure the boy or to keep himself from falling to the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" Eddard asked, the pain in his voice unmistakable.

Sansa didn't wait for Tyrion to reply. She moved closer, sinking to her knees and reaching for her son. She urged him to turn toward her so that she could look in his eyes. "That was my doing," she said. "I wanted you to have a chance to get to know your father before we revealed the truth to everyone. No one in Winterfell knows Lord Tyrion's true identity. Not yet. It's a secret that only you, I, and Aunt Arya know. You like keeping secrets, don't you?"

"Yes. But why do we have to?"

Sansa glanced at Tyrion. His face was flushed, his hair was disheveled, and he was dressed in a nightshirt that was two sizes too big for him. "Does he look like a proper lord to you?"

Eddard turned and examined Tyrion thoughtfully. "No, of course not."

"Well, until he does, who would believe that he is the rightful Lord of Winterfell? Your father has traveled a great distance to return to us, and he has endured many hardships. He needed some time to recover before assuming his duties as lord of the keep. Once everyone knows the truth, things will change, and I wanted us to have this private time together as a family before that happened."

Nothing that Sansa had told Eddard was inherently false. It all made perfect sense to her, and she prayed that it would make perfect sense to him. She didn't want there to be any awkwardness between Eddard and Tyrion, or any mistrust. She wanted Eddard to forget all about their deception so that he could start enjoying having his father in his life before Tyrion walked away again.

"Does this mean that I'm not the Lord of Winterfell anymore?" Eddard asked.

Of course, that was exactly what it meant, but Sansa was reluctant to admit it. She hated disappointing Eddard. He'd had such a hard life already – living in exile in the Vale, surviving the Great War – she hated doing anything that might hurt him. But now, she had no choice but to tell him that, while he had gained a father, he had lost the right to call himself the Lord of Winterfell.

"You're still Lord Eddard Lannister," Sansa said. "And that's never going to change. And someday – hopefully, a very long time from now – you'll be the Lord of Winterfell again."

Eddard moved his eyes from Sansa to Tyrion, and Sansa followed his gaze. Tyrion still looked stunned, and Sansa wished he would say something more, but he seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I don't mind," Eddard said to Tyrion, "because it means I have a father now, just like I've always wanted."

Tyrion's eyes softened as he looked down at his son, and Sansa's heart swelled with unspoken joy. If they could have stayed that way forever, just the three of them, Sansa would have died happy. She had imagined this moment so many times, and two nights earlier, she'd thought it would never happen. But it had happened, and Sansa would be eternally grateful for it. It was obvious that Tyrion cared for Eddard, even if he refused to believe that the boy was his. There was simply no denying that.

"I'm glad that I could make you happy," Tyrion said. "I'm glad that you're not disappointed."

Eddard shook his head adamantly. "Oh, no. I've never been so happy!" He looked like he was about to burst, and Sansa was sure he wanted nothing more than to run through the halls of Winterfell telling everyone that his father had returned. She was happy for him, even though she knew his joy would be short-lived.

"Good," Tyrion said softly. "I'm glad."

Without warning, Eddard threw his arms around Tyrion's waist and hugged him again. Tyrion reached up with both hands and tentatively patted Eddard on the back.

"You're a good boy," Tyrion said. "A good little lord. And any man would be proud to call you his son."

"Are you proud of me?" Eddard asked, pulling back so he could look up into his father's eyes.

"Yes, very proud," Tyrion replied, his voice catching in his throat. "And your mother is proud of you too. Isn't that right, Lady Lannister?"

"It is."

Eddard hugged Tyrion again, then finally let him go. He turned toward Sansa. His eyes bright with expectation, he asked, "Can I tell Maester Wolkan?"

"Yes, you can." Sansa knew that the rest of the keep would have to learn the truth eventually. And Winterfell's new maester was a very shrewd man. She was sure he already suspected that their mysterious visitor was the rightful Lord of Winterfell.

"Can I send a raven to cousin Jon and Uncle Jaime?"

"It's already been done, but if you want to write to them and tell them how happy you are, you can do that. Ask Maester Wolkan to help you."

"All right," Eddard agreed.

He turned away then, obviously intent on racing to Maester Wolkan's chamber, but he traveled no more than two feet before he spun around and threw himself into Tyrion's arms again. He squeezed his father tightly. "I love you," Eddard said. "You're the best father in the world." Then, he turned and ran off on his mission, determined to tell all of Winterfell that his long-lost father was finally home.

The silence that followed was painfully awkward, and Sansa didn't want to be the first to speak. She hazarded a glance at Tyrion, afraid of what she might find. He was staring at the floor again, his brow furrowed, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

When Tyrion just continued to stare at the floorboards, Sansa was forced to break the silence. "I should leave you," she said softly. "I'm sorry for all the intrusions."

Sansa stood and walked to the door, hoping that Tyrion would call her back, but he didn't. She left the room without another word spoken between them.


	12. Chapter 11

Author's Note: I apologize for the slow updates. Now that the show is over, I've had no choice but to start tending to all the real-life stuff I neglected while Season 8 was airing. I would rather take my time editing this story than start posting chapters that are not up to my personal standards, so please, bear with me.

Again, I want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement. I'm glad that so many of you seem to love this story just as much as I do!

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Tyrion was shaking. Every nerve in his body was trembling, and he thought his legs might give out beneath him. He had known that Eddard would eventually learn the truth, but he hadn't expected the experience to be quite so visceral. Eddard loved him unconditionally, adored him, revered him. And Tyrion felt like the worst kind of liar. There was nothing admirable about him, nothing heroic or brave or worthy. And worst of all, he wasn't even Eddard's real father. Whatever Sansa said, whatever Sansa believed, it just wasn't true, and Tyrion felt utterly wretched.

When he was certain that he could move without collapsing to the floor, Tyrion took a few cautious steps toward the bed, wrapping his arms around the bedpost and holding on for dear life. He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. He felt like a fool. He wanted it all so badly – Sansa, Eddard, Winterfell – so badly he could taste it, and yet, he knew he was just deluding himself. His entire life, all Tyrion had ever wanted was to be loved unconditionally. The only person who had ever come close to showing him that kind of affection had been Jaime. But beyond that, no one had ever really cared for Tyrion very much at all.

Despite his determination to remain strong, Tyrion was suddenly overcome with emotion, and he began to weep. He sank to the floor, his arms still wrapped around the bedpost, and leaned his head against the mattress, the tears finally falling in earnest.

It felt good to cry. It had been a long time since Tyrion had cried. He hadn't shed a single tear since the night he had murdered Shae. After that, he had spent months in a drunken stupor, too numb to feel anything at all. Once the initial shock had worn off, the numbness had lingered, becoming a vital part of his self-preservation. But now, Tyrion was finally starting to feel again, and it was all simply too much for him to bear.

He cried for Shae. He cried for his father, and for Cersei, and for Myrcella and Tommen. For little Eddard and his dream of the father he would never meet. For Sansa and her silly girlhood dreams. For the five long years of his life that he would never get back. For what might have been.

Tyrion cried until he nearly choked on his tears. Then, he finally let go of the bedpost, turning to sit on his backside so that he could gaze at the dying embers in the hearth. His eyes stung, and his nose was stuffed swollen. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and he knew his face was probably bright red. He was sure he looked like shit, but then, what else was new?

Tyrion stared into the hearth, a thousand thoughts running wild through his head. More than anything, he just wanted to run. He wanted to put on his ill-fitting clothes, find his horse, and gallop off into the countryside, the crippling snow be damned. He wanted to get as far away from Winterfell as possible before he no longer had any desire to leave. Because what Sansa and Eddard were offering him was tempting beyond measure – a family, a home, acceptance, . . . love. It was everything Tyrion had always wanted, and he knew he didn't deserve any of it.

Tyrion could still feel Eddard's arms around his neck, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeline, and an unbidden sob escaped his throat. How easy it would be to fall in love with Eddard, whether the boy was his son or not. There was something so endearing about him. He was so much like his mother that Tyrion couldn't help but love him.

Tyrion sighed. He'd buried his feelings for Sansa Stark a long time ago. He'd always cared for her, always loved her, in his way. Although he'd adored her from the start, he'd never truly believed that there could be anything more between them than friendship, even after he had shared her bed. Sansa was an extraordinary woman, she always had been, and she deserved far better than to spend the rest of her life beholden to a half-man who could never truly be worthy of her.

And yet, she had just stood before him and said the one thing he had never expected her to say. _I want my husband. _Tyrion wasn't quite sure what that meant, whether she wanted him by her side or in her bed. Either way, it was more than he had ever expected, and he was stunned by the very thought.

For a brief moment, Tyrion let himself imagine what life would be like if he chose to stay at Winterfell. Although he knew Sansa could never truly love him, he knew she could make him happy. And so could Eddard. He could easily envision himself falling into a comfortable little life with a wife and child by his side, ruling the north, restoring Winterfell to its former glory. He wondered, if he stayed long enough, if Sansa would someday ask him to share her bed again. After all, Eddard was already demanding a baby brother and Winterfell could always use another heir. Would Sansa willingly sacrifice herself to him one more time in hopes of conceiving another child? Tyrion couldn't even begin to imagine what it would feel like to share Sansa's bed again. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, and he wasn't even sure he remembered what to do with one.

Tyrion shook his head, trying to chase away the thought. He was getting ahead of himself by leaps and bounds. He didn't even intend to stay at Winterfell, so there was no point in speculating about such a future. He already knew the future. The snow would stop, and he would head for Casterly Rock. That was it. Simple and easy and painless.

Tyrion laughed, nearly sobbing with the effort. Even he didn't believe his own lies anymore.

The empty silence was suddenly broken by a knock at the door, and Tyrion swiped at his cheeks, trying to dry away the evidence of his tears. He could tell by the light streaming through the unshuttered windows that it was still morning, and he was certain that his breakfast had finally arrived.

Tyrion scrambled to his feet. "One moment."

Instead of heading to the door, he walked over to the washbasin and doused his face with cold water. Even if his visitor was just a servant come to deliver breakfast, he didn't want to look like he'd spent the last hour crying like a newborn babe.

When Tyrion was sure that he didn't look like a total disgrace, he turned back toward the door. "Come in," he said in a calm, clear voice.

The door opened, and Arya Stark stepped inside, followed by a maidservant carrying his breakfast tray.

Tyrion groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was a visit from his sister-in-law. All he wanted was to eat his morning meal in peace.

Tyrion could feel Arya's eyes boring into him from across the room. Instead of meeting her gaze, he focused his attention on the maidservant. He watched as the woman crossed the floor and put the tray on the small table in the corner. Then, she turned around and offered him a small curtsy before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

The atmosphere suddenly felt stifling, and Tyrion wished he was anywhere else in the world at that moment. Even the dirtiest gutter in Essos was preferable to being shut up alone in a room with Arya Stark.

Tyrion knew he couldn't avoid facing her forever. She was standing between him and the door, and it was obvious that she had no intention of leaving until she got whatever it was she had come for.

It was with great reluctance that Tyrion finally raised his eyes to Arya's. The look he saw there was inscrutable, and yet, he knew she could see right down into his very soul. He shivered at the sensation but fought the urge to look away.

"Lady Arya, is there something I can do for you?"

Arya moved farther into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. She threw something onto the furs. "Here," she said, "these are yours. The seamstress finished them this morning."

Tyrion hadn't even realized that Arya had been carrying anything, but now, he saw the fine set of clothes she had tossed onto the bed. She'd brought him a dark blue woolen doublet with breeches, hose, and boots to match, all of exceptional quality. Tyrion looked them over with glassy eyes. It had been a long time since he'd worn anything so refined, and he was surprisingly apprehensive about the prospect.

"It will take some time for her to finish your entire wardrobe," Arya continued, "but Sansa wanted you to have these for now."

Tyrion looked up at Arya again, her expression as blank as ever. "And what do you want, Lady Arya? Still hoping to throw me out a window?"

"If you hurt my sister and my nephew, I'll do worse than that."

Tyrion laughed. "I certainly don't doubt it."

"Eddard's already told half the castle who you really are. The next time you step out of this room, it's going to be as the Lord of Winterfell, so you'd better make sure that you're ready and that you're worthy of the title."

"But I'm not worthy of the title. I never have been."

"Well, it's yours now, and if you do anything to disgrace those who held the title before you, I will kill you. Make no mistake. You get one chance, Lannister, one. My sister may think you're a kind and gentle soul, she may even fancy herself in love with you, but I am not blinded by my emotions. I judge everything by what I see. And if I find you lacking, I will not stay silent. My father would be horrified to know that a Lannister has taken his place. Don't make me regret letting you live to walk in his footsteps."

Arya's threats were powerful indeed, but they were nothing compared to her assertion that Sansa could ever fancy herself in love with him. It was all Tyrion heard.

"I can assure you," he said, with absolute certainty, "your sister does not love me."

The hint of a smile pulled at Arya's lips for one brief instant. Had Tyrion blinked, he would have missed it completely.

"And everyone says you're so clever."

"I am clever," Tyrion said with genuine pride. "In fact, I think that's my only redeeming quality. Well, that and my winning sense of humor."

"My sister may have grown up a lot since the last time you saw her in King's Landing, but in her heart, she's still the same girl she always was. She still believes in true love and fairytales and knights in shining armor, even though she's had her heart broken one too many times. Whatever you do, don't break it again."

Tyrion couldn't help but wonder who else had broken Sansa's heart. Had Eddard's father used her for his own pleasure and then abandoned her when he'd discovered that she was with child? Or had they been in love but unable to wed because Sansa already had a husband? Tyrion didn't think he wanted to know.

The only thing Tyrion did know for certain was that Sansa didn't love him, and therefore, there was no way he could ever break her heart. Although Arya was a fine fighter, with a keen ability to size up her opponents, she didn't know the first thing about love. Not romantic love, anyway. Yes, Sansa had told herself a fairy story about what would happen when he returned, but her desire for him to come back had nothing to do with love. She wanted a father for Eddard, she wanted a husband to rule Winterfell by her side, but that was all.

"I promise you," Tyrion said, "I am not going to break her heart."

"Good, because she's already been through too much, and she doesn't deserve any more heartache in her life. And neither does Eddard."

Tyrion didn't want to talk about Eddard. He knew how Arya felt about his relationship with the boy, what Arya thought, and to discuss the matter again would just be to talk in circles. So Tyrion abruptly changed the subject. "You've told me how you think Sansa feels—"

"How I _know_ Sansa feels."

"And how you feel," Tyrion said, ignoring Arya's admonishment. "But what about the rest of Winterfell? Are the servants and the stable hands and the stewards willing to accept me as their new lord, or would they much rather have my head?"

"I think that remains to be seen."

"But surely you know which way the wind is blowing. I would appreciate it very much if you would give me a report on the weather."

Tyrion held his breath as he waited for Arya to reply. He knew she was not particularly fond of him, but she had expressed what seemed like a genuine desire for him to succeed, at least until she felt he had proven himself unworthy. Would she be honest with him? Would she tell him what he needed to know to navigate the politics of the north? Or would she ignore his pleas and set him up for certain failure?

"You may be Sansa's husband, but you are also a Lannister," Arya replied. "A year ago, that meant that the average northman would have killed you on sight just for your name alone. The only reason Eddard was safe was because he had Stark blood running through his veins."

Tyrion wanted to point out that it was probably also because no one believed that Eddard was a trueborn Lannister, but he held his tongue. That was a door he had no desire to open again.

"And then," Arya went on, "the White Walkers came, and Jaime Lannister defied your sister and rode north to join our fight. I must admit, until I got to know him, I had never thought well of a single Lannister besides Eddard, but even I could not deny what an asset your brother was to the cause. He fought for Westeros, he fought for the north, like he didn't care whether he lived or died. He killed a lot of White Walkers, saved a lot of lives. And because of that, I think the people of Winterfell, and our northern brethren, will be less likely to despise you than they might have been just one short year ago."

"And yet," Tyrion said, "I am the man who abandoned their lady and her child for more than five long years."

Arya snickered. It was the first time Tyrion had heard her laugh, even derisively, since she was a child.

"I think they were all grateful that you stayed away," Arya said. "After Jon and Littlefinger drove Ramsay Bolton out of Winterfell and Sansa finally returned, I think the people of the north were relieved to be free of outside influences. No one was sorry to see Sansa return alone. They were just happy that there was a Stark in Winterfell once more."

"What happened between Sansa and Littlefinger?" Tyrion asked before he could stop himself. Bronn hadn't been able to tell him much, and all Sansa had said was that Littlefinger wasn't Eddard's father.

"I don't know all of it," Arya replied, her voice growing quiet. "She hasn't told me all of it, and I don't think she ever will. But when they returned to Winterfell – when we all returned to Winterfell – the true extent of his treachery was finally revealed, and Sansa and I put an end to his life once and for all."

"Sansa?" Tyrion couldn't imagine Sansa putting an end to anyone's life, not even Littlefinger's.

"She delivered the sentence, and I carried it out. Our father used to say, _the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword_. But Sansa doesn't have the stomach for inflicting pain, even on the most deserving, and we made our decision together – Sansa, Bran, and I. Together we decided his fate, and together we gathered in the Great Hall and watched the blood flow from his veins when I slit his throat."

Arya painted a gruesome picture, and Tyrion wondered exactly what Littlefinger had done to deserve such a fate. Of course, Tyrion didn't doubt that he had deserved it, but he wondered just how bad the whoremonger's treachery had been. "May I ask what the charge against him was? I knew Littlefinger for a long time, and I can't help but wonder which of his many crimes finally did him in."

"He orchestrated Jon Arryn's assassination. He murdered our Aunt Lysa. Through his lies and treachery, he purposefully started the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, a conflict that led to a brutal war. He betrayed our father and sent him to his death. And gods only know what else."

Tyrion stared at Arya in silence. He couldn't imagine how the Starks had been able to prove any of it, but he didn't doubt that every word was true. Whatever Littlefinger had been after – whether it had been the Iron Throne or Catelyn Stark or just the joy of watching the world burn around him – he had done everything in his power to make it happen. He had destroyed more innocent lives than Tyrion could count, and suddenly, Tyrion was glad that Littlefinger was dead and that his wife had been the one to pass the sentence.

"And who brought testimony against him?" Tyrion asked, too curious to stop himself from inquiring.

"Bran. He sees all and knows all."

"Because he's the Three-Eyed Raven?"

"Yes."

"I've heard that Bran lives north of the Wall now," Tyrion said, still wanting to know more. "Is that true?"

"It is. After the war, he had no desire to stay and look after Winterfell. He had no desire for anything, really."

Tyrion couldn't quite imagine a Stark, any Stark, turning his or her back on Winterfell. Its snows ran in their blood, and they were as tightly connected to the keep as they were to each other. He knew that Bran Stark must be in a wretched state to not have the slightest care for his ancestral home.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Tyrion said with all sincerity, the words passing his lips without a second thought.

Arya's eyes suddenly softened, and Tyrion could tell that was the last thing in the world she had expected him to say. At first, he thought she wouldn't even acknowledge his words of sympathy, but then, she said, "All we've had is loss for eight long years. But I thank you for the sentiment, anyway."

Tyrion nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Arya turned away from him for the first time since she'd entered the room. She looked at the table in the corner where the maidservant had left the tray of food. "You should eat your breakfast. The rest of us have already had ours."

"Yes, thank you."

Arya's eyes moved back to Tyrion. "And remember, the next time you walk through that door, it will be as the Lord of Winterfell. Don't make me regret helping you."

A cold chill swept down Tyrion's spine, but he held his ground. "I won't."

"Good."

Arya turned around and left the chamber without another word.

Tyrion closed his eyes and exhaled a heavy sigh. The weight of the world was suddenly on his shoulders, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Upon his return to Westeros, all he had wanted to do was forgo duty and honor and live a quiet life of solitude. But it was becoming more and more apparent that Sansa and Arya had no intention of letting him leave Winterfell as long as there was breath in his lungs and blood flowing through his veins. The moment he donned his new lordly attire and stepped out of his bedchamber, he would be shackling himself to a lifetime of responsibilities that he knew he didn't want. But what choice did he have? Like it or not, he was the Lord of Winterfell now, and he could no longer run from his obligations, no matter how much he wanted to. Unless he could think of a clever way out, Tyrion was certain he was going to be stuck at Winterfell for the foreseeable future.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

News of Tyrion's return spread like wildfire throughout the north, and suddenly, Sansa's days were filled with endless audiences with bannermen and smallfolk, all clamoring to see the new Lord of Winterfell so they could take his measure. Tyrion, for his part, was no more thrilled by the proceedings than Sansa was. Together, they spent long hours in the Great Hall meeting with petitioners and gawkers alike. The Lord of Winterfell had finally returned, and it seemed that everyone in the land felt the need to pass judgment on him.

Thankfully, most northerners looked kindlier on Lannisters now than they had in the past, especially after what Jaime had done for them, and their biggest concern seemed to be whether the man who had murdered Tywin Lannister was there to aid them in their struggles or to steal power for himself. They feared Tyrion was more like his father and Cersei than he was like Jaime, and they were waiting for him to prove his worth, one way or the other.

For the fortnight following his arrival, Sansa and Tyrion fell into a steady routine. Tyrion still took breakfast alone in his chamber every morning, but afterwards, he would meet her in the Great Hall to conduct business. Once the morning's work was done, he would join the rest of the family – his family, whether he was willing to admit it or not – in her solar for the afternoon meal. Then, it was back to work for a few more hours before they finally parted ways until dinner.

When Sansa and Tyrion were meeting with bannermen and tenant farmers in the Great Hall, there was nothing but business between them. But at meals, at least, Tyrion had finally begun to relax. He spent most of his time entertaining Eddard, but occasionally, he'd offer Sansa a warm smile or tell a particularly amusing joke that he knew would make her laugh. He wasn't quite as jovial as he had been back in King's Landing, but he still had a wry sense of humor, and Sansa found it a refreshing change from the gloom that had settled over Winterfell since the war.

On one such evening, Tyrion was engrossed in telling Eddard a dragon tale he had heard while traveling through Essos. Eddard had brought a few of his toys to the dinner table – a habit Sansa didn't entirely approve of – and Tyrion was using them to illustrate his story as they both ignored their dinner.

"And then, the dragon swooped down and burned the errant knight right where he stood," Tyrion said as he held the carved wooden dragon aloft, swirling it in large circles in the air, before finally driving it downward to attack the little wooden knight beside his dinner plate. "Ahhhhh!" As the dragon knocked over the little knight and flew away, Tyrion made a dreadful noise that Sansa assumed was supposed to be the sound of someone being burned alive.

Eddard laughed and clapped his hands in approval. "And then what happened?"

"And then, the dragon flew back," Tyrion arched his arm in the air once more, flying the dragon over the table, "and burned him again, just for good measure." The dragon flew low, hitting the recumbent knight and pushing him across the table as Tyrion made that godsawful noise again. "Ahhhhh."

This time, Arya laughed. But Sansa didn't think it was funny. Whenever Tyrion was at the table, Eddard lost all interest in his food, simply too enraptured by his father's stories to concentrate on anything else. And it wasn't just at the dinner table that Eddard hung on Tyrion's every word. He was still sneaking into Tyrion's room at night so they could read together, and Sansa was surprised that he and Tyrion were getting any sleep at all. She had never seen Eddard happier, which is why she kept her disapproval to herself. She didn't know how long Tyrion intended to stay, and she didn't want to take a single moment of happiness away from her son.

The blizzard that had stranded Tyrion at Winterfell had lasted for six days. Now, even though the heavy snows had stopped, the roads were still treacherous and the winds bitterly cold. Tyrion had made no mention of leaving again, but Sansa knew it was just a matter of time before he was gone. Once the weather was more hospitable, she was certain he'd be on his way and out of their lives forever.

As Tyrion continued telling his story, Maester Wolkan quietly slipped into the room and approached Sansa. "I'm sorry to disturb you, my lady, but there's been a raven from the Red Keep."

The room instantly fell silent, and all eyes turned to Sansa and Maester Wolkan.

Sansa put down her fork and took the letter, her fingers trembling slightly as she broke the royal seal. She held her breath and unfurled the scroll. It read:

_ Dear Sansa, _

_ I have received your letter about Lord Tyrion's arrival. If he intends to take his place as the Lord of Winterfell, I trust that you will keep me abreast of his activities, for we must monitor his loyalties. And if there ever comes a time when you no longer want him to sit in Father's stead, I wish to know it so that I can make the necessary arrangements to relieve him of his duties. _

_ I pray that you are well, sister, and that your husband's return has brought you comfort and not sorrow._

_ Yours, Jon_

Sansa crumpled up the parchment and tucked it into her pocket, her whole body trembling. "Thank you, Maester Wolkan."

"Is there anything I need to know, my lady?"

Sansa forced herself to look at him, forced herself to pretend that Jon's words hadn't affected her. "No. It was just a personal note from the king, welcoming Lord Tyrion to the family."

The look in Maester Wolkan's eyes told her that he didn't quite believe her, but Sansa knew he wasn't about to contradict her. "Of course, my lady," he said with a slight bow of his head. "In that case, if I am not needed, I shall let you return to your meal."

"Thank you."

The room stayed silent as Maester Wolkan made his way to the door, closing it quietly behind him.

When Sansa turned her attention back to the table, she found Tyrion staring at her. She could tell that he didn't believe her either, and she suddenly wished that she was a better liar.

"Finish the story," Eddard urged, eagerly tugging on Tyrion's sleeve.

"Oh, right," Tyrion said, as if he'd completely forgotten what he'd been doing before Maester Wolkan had entered the room. Tyrion pulled his eyes away from Sansa and turned toward Eddard. "Yes, the bloodthirsty dragon and the rivers of fire." Tyrion went back to entertaining Eddard, but there was an edge to his voice, and Sansa could tell that his mind was on the small piece of paper stuffed in her pocket.

Sansa went back to her meal. She could feel Arya's eyes upon her, and she wished she could just retire for the evening and be left alone in peace.

Arya leaned in close, her knee brushing against Sansa's beneath the table. Her voice was low and soft as she asked, "What did it really say?"

Sansa's eyes darted to Tyrion, to see if he had heard Arya's question, but he kept his focus on Eddard, and she couldn't tell for certain.

"Exactly what I said," Sansa replied, looking askance at Arya. "Jon has acknowledged Tyrion as the new Lord of Winterfell, that's all."

"Of course, it is." As Arya leaned back, Sansa felt something brush against her hip. An instant later, the letter was out of her pocket and in Arya's hands.

"Give that back!" Sansa demanded, her voice shrill with alarm.

"No, I think I'll keep it." Arya stuffed the letter in her own pocket, out of Sansa's reach.

The rest of the table had gone quiet, and Sansa could feel Tyrion and Eddard watching them.

"That isn't for you," Sansa snapped.

"That may be true, but I'm going to read it anyway."

Sansa had to fight to control her temper. Had she not been a grown woman and the Lady of Winterfell, she would have thrown herself at Arya and forcibly wrested the letter from her pocket. "Arya," she warned darkly.

But Arya just laughed. "Yes?"

"Give me back that letter."

"Or what? What could you possibly do to me to make me give it back?"

Sansa knew there wasn't a single threat she could level against her sister that would have any weight. Arya didn't fear anything, least of all Sansa.

Not wanting to argue with Arya in front of Tyrion, Sansa turned back to her meal without answering.

"That's what I thought," Arya said.

Sansa concentrated on eating her dinner. The truth was, there was nothing in Jon's letter that Arya couldn't see, but the same was certainly not true for Tyrion. Sansa wanted to drop the matter as quickly as possible, before Tyrion started asking questions and she had to concoct more lies.

When both Sansa and Arya remained silent, Eddard and Tyrion finally went back to their storytelling and the evening meal returned to relative normal. Ordinarily, Sansa took great pleasure in watching her husband and son together, but Jon's letter had rattled her, and she found it impossible to enjoy anything at that moment.

Sansa hadn't known what to expect when she'd written to Jon a fortnight earlier. She'd half expected him to send a small army of soldiers to Winterfell to arrest Tyrion for crimes against the crown. Although Tyrion's crimes had all been committed before Jon had taken the throne, officially, he was still a fugitive, and Jon had every right to arrest him if he wanted to. Even though Bran had assured both Jon and Sansa that Tyrion had not murdered Joffrey, there was no denying that he had murdered Tywin Lannister.

And Shae.

But Sansa tried not to think about that.

Sansa ate her dinner in silence, forcing the darkest of her thoughts from her mind. She didn't particularly like the idea of spying on Tyrion for Jon, but she understood why he had asked her to do it. Although Tyrion and Jon had known each other once, had even traveled to the Wall together, that had been a long time ago, and they had both been very different people then. Tyrion had been the dissolute son of the most powerful man in Westeros, and Jon had been nothing but a bastard about to swear his life away to the Night's Watch. Now, their circumstances couldn't have been more different. Tyrion was the Lord of Winterfell, and Jon was king of the Seven Kingdoms. Oh, how their fortunes had changed!

Even though Jon had asked Sansa to keep him informed of Tyrion's activities while he was at Winterfell, she was certain that she would never have anything nefarious to report. Despite Tyrion's refusal to trust her, Sansa still trusted him. She knew he was a good man, even if he didn't believe it himself, and she knew he would make a splendid Lord of Winterfell one day, perhaps even rivaling her father in wisdom and kindness.

The thought brought Sansa's eyes back to Tyrion. Eddard was now telling his own story, and Tyrion was laughing heartily at the boy's theatrics. Tyrion had been the acting Lord of Winterfell for less than a fortnight now, but he'd done quite an admirable job of it. He'd heard a lot of criticism, a lot of doubt, from the men and women who had come before him, and he'd taken everything in his stride. He'd listened, reasoned, considered, and above all, been respectful of everyone who'd addressed him, from highborn lord to the lowliest of the smallfolk. He was a wise man, there was no denying that, and he seemed willing to use that wisdom for the betterment of the people and not the betterment of himself.

Eddard's story suddenly grew serious, and the laughter died away as Tyrion furrowed his brow in concern for the wounded dragon that lay lifeless in Eddard's hands. As Eddard continued to weave his tale, Tyrion glanced at Sansa, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. He smiled softly at her, then turned back toward their son.

In an instant, there were tears in Sansa's eyes, and she lowered her head to hide them. The novelty of seeing Tyrion and Eddard together had yet to wear off, and it always struck a chord deep inside her soul. And sometimes, when Tyrion looked at her, she felt something else, something more, something she'd thought never to feel again. But she refused to get her hopes up. She and Tyrion were married, yes, but they weren't lovers, and she doubted they ever would be again. He thought her faithless and fickle, and she was certain that he intended to leave her as soon as he could.

Dinner didn't linger much longer after that. Soon, Eddard's tale was done, and he was trying to pull Tyrion out of his chair so they could go down to the crypts to play a game of hide-and-seek by torchlight.

Tyrion, however, refused to move from his seat. "I think your Aunt Arya is much better suited to such a game than I am. Why don't you ask her?"

But Eddard didn't even bother to ask. Instead, he raced around the table and began tugging on Arya's arm, trying to drag her to her feet.

Arya skewered Tyrion with her eyes, and he simply smiled back at her.

"Have fun," he said.

"Oh, I will. And I won't forget this. I promise."

Arya finally allowed Eddard to pull her from her chair and drag her out of the room. When the door closed behind them, the silence was deafening.

Tyrion and Sansa sat at opposite ends of the table, their eyes never meeting. Without a word, Tyrion picked up his glass and took a long drink. When he was done, he looked up at Sansa, finally breaking the silence. "I suppose Jon is none too pleased with the current turn of events."

Sansa was surprised that Tyrion wanted to talk about Jon, but then, she already knew he hadn't believed her lies any more than Arya had. Sansa reached for her wine, taking a sip before answering. "Jon didn't say any such thing."

"But he must have said something to put such a somber look on your face."

Sansa put down her glass, deciding that she needed to be as honest with Tyrion as she possibly could. "He wants to ensure that you make a suitable Lord of Winterfell, and he has tasked me with seeing to it that you do."

"And if I fall short?"

Sansa paused, not sure how much of the truth she should tell Tyrion. Jon's letter had been written in the strictest confidence, but Tyrion was her husband and she had no desire to keep secrets from him. "If you fall short," Sansa answered, "I am to tell him straight away."

"Ah," Tyrion said, leaning back in his chair, his glass still in his hand, "so he can have me arrested. Tell me, do you think he'll just throw me in a cell, or do you think he'll take my head?"

"I suppose that will depend on what crime you're accused of."

"Well, I've committed many crimes, so he'll have a long list to choose from."

Sansa was tempted to ask Tyrion about Shae. For five years she had wondered why he had murdered one of the only people in King's Landing who had ever been kind to her. She knew, of course, that they'd been lovers. It had all come out in Tyrion's trial. She also knew that Shae's body had been found in Lord Tywin's bed. What she didn't know was what had driven Tyrion over the edge, why he had murdered his lover and then passed the same sentence on his father. He could have left King's Landing without ever having seen either one of them again, but he had chosen to go to Tywin's chamber, and that choice had ended in tragedy.

"I see you're wondering exactly what is on that list," Tyrion said when Sansa remained silent.

"No, not what, but why."

"Why?" Tyrion's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, obviously surprised by the question.

"Why did you murder Shae?"

The shock in Tyrion's eyes was unmistakable. He stared at Sansa for a long moment, the air heavy between them. She thought he might deny it, after all, he had never been convicted of Shae's murder. But he didn't. Instead, he answered, "Because I was angry."

A cold chill flushed Sansa's entire body as she stared in silent horror at her husband. She had not expected such an answer. She had expected him to make excuses, to say that he had killed Shae because she had betrayed him or because he'd been fighting for his life. But no, he had offered no excuses, just a simple answer, an answer that Sansa found frightening.

"Is that what you do when people make you angry?" Sansa asked, the words hollow in her throat.

"No, it's not. But that . . ." Tyrion closed his eyes and scrunched up his face, as if disturbed by the memory, "that was different."

"How?"

Tyrion opened his eyes and looked at her again. "Shae betrayed me in the cruelest of ways. She stood before all of King's Landing and swore that I had murdered Joffrey when she knew I was innocent. She made a public mockery of everything we had ever shared, and then, when it was all over, she went to my father's bed as if it all meant nothing to her."

"She was a whore," Sansa said, the word feeling impossibly foreign on her tongue. "What choice did she have but to do your father's bidding? How can you blame her for trying to save herself?"

"Because she swore that she loved me," Tyrion replied, the pain in his voice unmistakable. "I would never have betrayed her the way she betrayed me. I would have let them kill me before I ever spoke a word against her."

"And yet, you killed her yourself. How pure could your love have been if you could do something like that to her?"

Tyrion stared at Sansa for a moment, then looked away. "Yes, I know," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "Don't think that I don't regret it. Don't think that I don't know that I'm a monster, because I do. You asked me why I killed her, and I told you. I'm not defending myself. I'm just answering your question." He finished his drink, leaning his head back so that he could capture every last drop of wine. Then, he put down his glass and climbed from the chair. Without another word, he turned away and headed toward the door.

"Tyrion, wait!"

He stopped but didn't turn around.

Sansa rose from the table. She crossed the room, leaving a comfortable distance between them. "I didn't mean to attack you," she said. "I cared for Shae. She was one of the few people who was ever kind to me in King's Landing, and when I heard what she really was, and when I heard what you had done, I didn't know what to think, what to believe. I know she betrayed you. I know that, had things gone differently, that betrayal would have led to your execution. I know all of that. I just needed to know why, so I could understand how my friend's life ended at my husband's hands."

Tyrion slowly turned around. He looked up at Sansa, and she thought she saw the sheen of unshed tears glistening in his eyes, but perhaps it was just a trick of the candlelight.

"I'm sorry, Sansa. I never even thought— I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

"I loved her," Tyrion said. "I truly did. But she hurt me more than anyone else ever has. I didn't intend to kill her. I didn't intend to kill my father either. I went to his chamber that night to confront him, to make my hatred and anger known. I wanted to frighten him, terrorize him, maybe leave him wounded and helpless, but I never wanted to kill him. And I never expected to find Shae in his bed."

Sansa nodded, words suddenly failing her.

"If I could go back and do it all over again," Tyrion said, "I would never have gone to that room. I would have fled King's Landing straightaway and never looked back. You have no idea how many nights I've lain awake wishing that things had been different, wishing that I hadn't lost my temper, that I had simply turned around and walked away. There is nothing in my life I regret more than killing Shae. Nothing. Not even killing my father."

The sincerity in Tyrion's voice was unmistakable, and Sansa had no doubt that, if he could, he would go back in time and change everything. But he couldn't. Neither of them could. And now, their only choice was to move forward and do their best to live with the mistakes and regrets of the past.

"Do you hate me?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa was startled by the question. So startled, in fact, that she didn't even think before replying. "No, of course not."

"But I murdered someone you cared for. Surely, you cannot forgive me so easily for that."

Although Sansa's emotions were conflicted, she knew who deserved her loyalty and her forgiveness. "I didn't really know Shae. I thought I did, but I couldn't have been more wrong about her. You weren't the only one she implicated in Joffrey's murder, and while I understand why she swore that you and I conspired together, she still betrayed me just as she betrayed you. I miss her sometimes, and I mourn her loss, but she was no handmaiden. She was the woman who was sleeping with my husband."

"I wasn't sleeping with her," Tyrion said plainly.

"You need not lie about it," Sansa replied. "It doesn't matter now."

"Maybe it doesn't, but you should know the truth. Since we've been wed, I have not bedded another woman."

For a moment, Sansa stared at Tyrion in stunned silence, not knowing how to react. She was almost tempted to laugh. His confession sounded like a joke. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"

Tyrion laughed to himself. "No, of course not. But it is the truth. Though that doesn't mean you have to believe it."

"Just like you don't have to believe that Eddard is your son."

"Yes, I suppose it is just like that, isn't it?"

"You can't expect me to trust you when you refuse to trust me," Sansa replied.

"I guess neither one of us can expect the other to believe us when we say such ridiculous things."

Sansa shook her head. "Eddard being your son is not ridiculous."

"Yes, it is. It's just as ridiculous as the idea of me being celibate for five long years. So I think, in this case, we're just going to have to agree to disagree. Because I can't believe you any more than you can believe me."

"Because you don't want to."

"Because I can't allow myself to."

"What's the difference?"

Tyrion sighed. He looked away from her then and gazed idly about the room. "It doesn't matter. I really should be going. I should leave you to your needlework or whatever it is you do alone after dinner." His eyes finally found hers again. "I will see you tomorrow morning in the Great Hall. Sleep well." And then, without another word, he turned and left the room.

Sansa stood there staring at the closed door, not knowing what to think or feel. Hearing Tyrion's account of what had happened with Shae had been painful, not just because he had ended Shae's life in a blind rage, but because he had loved her with a passion that still haunted him. Tyrion had loved Shae with all his heart, and it was obvious that he still loved her, despite what he had done.

In Sansa's more desperate, pathetic dreams, she had imagined Tyrion falling in love with her. She knew it was foolish, of course. There was nothing about her that could ever truly tempt him. He thought her a silly little creature, overly emotional and immature, just a child to be protected and coddled. Even though they had spent one night together as man and wife, that didn't mean that he saw her as a woman. She had no experience with men beyond a few stolen kisses and one night in her husband's bed. She could never compare to a woman like Shae, skilled in the arts of love. She would always be just a burden to Tyrion, the last great suffering his father had inflicted upon him before his death. She was an obligation, a responsibility, and nothing more.

And so was Eddard.

Sansa knew that Tyrion cared for Eddard, but the boy was just as much of a burden to him as the rest of his life at Winterfell. Whatever affection existed between them now would likely melt away like the snow in summer when Tyrion finally abandoned them again. Sansa knew it wouldn't be long until he was gone, and she just prayed that, when he finally walked away, she'd have the strength to let him go.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The next fortnight was particularly trying for Tyrion. He and Sansa barely spoke outside of the Great Hall, and despite his best efforts, his attachment to little Eddard seemed to grow exponentially by the day. The weather had warmed just a bit, and the roads were finally passable, but Tyrion was reluctant to leave. He'd finally started to feel useful for the first time in a long time, and he wasn't ready to abandon his new post just yet.

Tyrion had always thrived on politics and planning and intrigue. And while there was very little in the way of intrigue at Winterfell, as far as politics and planning were concerned, there was still a great deal to be done. The north had suffered devastating losses during the war, more so than any other region in the realm, and it was in desperate need of an experienced leader to at least see it through the winter.

Navigating the concerns, complaints, and varied personalities of the local inhabitants had proven particularly challenging for Tyrion, but he liked the challenge. It made him feel alive in a way he barely recognized. It made him remember why he had refused to leave King's Landing when Shae had begged him to all those years ago. He had always needed to be active and involved with the world outside of himself in order to feel like his life was worth living.

And so he had stayed at Winterfell even after he had been free to leave. Although, truth be told, he'd never really felt as if he was free to go. The morning Maester Wolkan had informed everyone that the kingsroad was clear, Arya had given Tyrion a look that had threatened unimaginable suffering if he so much as stepped foot outside the castle gates. Even though Arya didn't seem to trust him, she was determined to see him stay, if only for Sansa and Eddard's sakes.

One afternoon, about a month after Tyrion's arrival, he was sitting at the desk in the small study that he had claimed for his own when there was an urgent knock at the door. "Come in," he said as he looked up from his work and turned toward the sound.

The door opened, and a maidservant stepped inside. Her face was flushed, and she was out of breath. "Lady Lannister sent me," the girl said. "You're needed in the Great Hall at once."

Tyrion didn't wait for an explanation. He hopped down from his chair and headed straight for the door. "What's wrong?" he asked as he walked past the girl, making his way out into the corridor. "Is it Eddard?"

"No, my lord. You have a visitor."

_A visitor?_ Tyrion couldn't imagine who had come to see him. He didn't have any friends in the north, and hardly any acquaintances. If it had been just another petitioner – a bannerman or a tenant farmer – Sansa could have addressed the matter on her own. Tyrion wasn't sure why he was being called to the Great Hall, but he was determined to find out.

With hurried steps, Tyrion traversed the maze of corridors that led to the Great Hall. The instant he passed through the open doorway, his feet faltered and he stopped dead still. There were nearly a dozen people milling about, but he saw no one beyond the pair chatting amiably by the hearth, Sansa and . . . Jaime.

A small sob escaped Tyrion's throat at the sight of his long-lost brother. He had thought it would be months before he saw Jaime again. Tyrion had no idea what Jaime was doing at Winterfell, or why he had come in such dangerous weather, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the fact that his brother was standing right in front of him, mere feet separating them instead of hundreds of miles.

Tyrion stood there, frozen to the spot, until Jaime's eyes finally found him. Jaime smiled broadly, as if he was just as happy to see Tyrion as Tyrion was to see him. Then, without another word to Sansa, Jaime left her side and made his way across the hall.

Tyrion finally regained the ability to move, and he started toward Jaime. His legs shook as he crossed the floor, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to the brother he hadn't seen in five long years.

The moment Tyrion was within reach, Jaime leaned down, wrapped his arms around him, and hugged him tightly. "Dear gods, it's good to see you!"

"What are you doing here?" Tyrion asked, struggling to get the words past the lump in his throat.

The position they were in was awkward for both of them, and Jaime finally released Tyrion and stood to his full height. He looked down at Tyrion again, his eyes bright with unspoken joy. "You said you were headed for Winterfell, so I headed for Winterfell."

"But I would have come to you."

Jaime laughed. "When? When you grew tired of your beautiful wife and adoring son? When you were through meddling in the affairs of what's left of the north?"

"My wife may be beautiful," Tyrion said, "but beyond a father for her child and a lord to rule by her side, she has no use for me."

"Really?" Jaime asked, a hint of cynicism in his voice.

"Yes, really. And as much as the boy adores me, he isn't mine, so what's there to stay for?"

Jaime's eyes darted to Sansa and then back to Tyrion again. "And she told you this? She told you that Eddard isn't your son?"

"No, of course not. She swears that he is—"

"Because he is."

Now, it was Tyrion's turn to laugh. "Don't tell me she's somehow managed to convince you too? You and Arya Stark seem to be the only people in all of Westeros who think that boy is mine."

"Have you looked at him?" Jaime asked. "Really looked at him? Or have you spent the last month avoiding him because you feel his very existence is some slight against your Lannister pride?"

"I haven't avoided him. I tried, but he made that impossible."

"Of course, he did. He's your son, and he's been waiting his whole life for you to come home."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't believe it. And nothing anyone does or says is going to convince me."

"Even though he looks just like Tommen at that age?"

Tyrion was silent for a moment. He was surprised that Jaime had mentioned Tommen. Even though Tyrion had been in Essos when it had happened, he knew how Tommen had died, knew how he'd thrown himself from a window after Cersei had murdered his beloved wife, Margaery. The loss had been painful for Tyrion, but he was certain it had been even more painful for Jaime, and he suddenly felt very ashamed of himself for having forced his brother to bring it up in the first place.

Tyrion dragged his eyes away from Jaime's, unable to face him a moment longer. Somehow, he managed to reply, "Even so."

Sansa came up beside them then, and Tyrion immediately turned his attention toward her, thankful for the distraction.

"Lady Sansa," he said cheerfully. "I hope you don't mind that my brother has arrived so unexpectedly."

"Lord Jaime sent word of his arrival days ago," Sansa answered. "I thought it would be best to let it be a surprise."

Tyrion was moved by Sansa's thoughtfulness. Jaime's arrival had definitely been a surprise, and had Sansa told Tyrion about it beforehand, he likely would have done nothing but worry until Jaime had reached Winterfell. Sansa had made the right choice, but then, she usually did. She was a very astute young woman, almost as clever as her husband.

"Well, it certainly was that," Tyrion replied. "Thank you." He finally turned back to Jaime, the earlier tension between them gone. "I'm sure you've had a long journey and would like a hot bath and a warm meal. We can catch up later if you like."

"Not so fast," Jaime said. He turned back toward the hall and held out his hand, beckoning someone forward. "There's a lady I'd like you to meet."

Tyrion turned away from Jaime and saw a tall blonde woman headed in their direction. Her hair was short cropped, falling just below her ears, but in every other sense, she was the perfect picture of womanhood. She wore a long, sapphire blue gown, with a matching cape to ward off the cold. She was no great beauty, and yet, she was undeniably captivating. She seemed oddly familiar, but Tyrion was having trouble placing her. He wondered if he had seen her at court, but too many years had passed for him to recall.

When the woman finally reached them, Jaime turned back to Tyrion and said, "You remember Brienne of Tarth, don't you? She's now my wife."

_Brienne of Tarth. _Tyrion stared at Lady Brienne in silent wonder. Yes, they had met before, a very long time ago, but he'd never imagined that she might someday be married to Jaime.

Tyrion was so stunned that he could barely speak. He tried to form a coherent reply, but all he got out was a single word, "How?"

Jaime laughed. "What do you mean, how?"

"I mean, I never imagined that you . . . that you even would marry. I mean . . ." Tyrion stumbled over his words, realizing, quite quickly, that he was making Lady Brienne highly uncomfortable. He inhaled a steadying breath, looked her directly in the eyes, and said, "What I mean is, congratulations, my lady. My brother is a very fortunate man."

The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "I am the fortunate one, my lord. I intended to be a knight, not a wife, but I am quite happy with your brother by my side, much happier than I ever could have imagined."

"But of course. You're married to the most handsome knight in all of Westeros. Why shouldn't you be happy? Every woman who's ever met him has wanted him. The gods must favor you greatly."

"I don't know how the gods feel about anything," Brienne said, slipping her arm around Jaime's and moving closer to him. "But I know how I feel, and I know how Jaime feels, and that's all that matters."

Tyrion looked up at his brother again, meeting his eyes. Tyrion could almost swear that Jaime was blushing.

"I can see that my brother loves you a great deal," Tyrion replied.

"And I love him, more than I could ever express with words alone."

Jaime broke Tyrion's gaze and cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. "Yes, well," Jaime said, "we really should be getting settled." He turned his attention to Sansa. "My lady, will we be staying in the Guest House again?"

"Yes," Sansa answered, "everything has been prepared for you. I shall show you the way."

Jaime cast Tyrion a sidelong glance as he and Brienne followed Sansa out of the Great Hall.

Tyrion just stood there, silently watching after them, his heart sick with envy. He had never imagined Jaime finding such unconditional love, nor had he imagined Jaime loving anyone but Cersei. But Jaime loved Brienne of Tarth. It was obvious to anyone who looked at him. He loved Brienne, and he was proud to call her his wife.

Tyrion wanted what Jaime had so badly he could taste it – an adoring wife and a true, abiding love. Even though Tyrion had his own wife, his relationship with Sansa wasn't based on love or even affection. It was based on duty and honor, nothing more. Although sometimes it seemed as if Sansa cared for him, Tyrion knew she didn't love him, and she sure as hell had never looked at him the way Brienne of Tarth looked at Jaime. Tyrion would have given just about anything for Sansa to look at him that way, but there were some miracles even the gods themselves couldn't perform.

As Jaime and Brienne finally disappeared from the Great Hall, Tyrion heard quiet footsteps pad up behind him, but he didn't turn around. He knew who it was. He had been back at Winterfell long enough now to recognize the sound of Arya's skulking anywhere.

"They make a fine pair, don't they?" Arya asked as she stopped beside Tyrion. From the corner of his eye, he could see that her gaze wasn't fixed on him, but on the empty doorway across the hall.

"They do."

"She's not the type of woman you'd think he'd fancy, is she?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Whether you love him or hate him," Arya said, "there's no denying that he is beautiful. Personally, I never thought him capable of looking at a woman like Lady Brienne and seeing the beauty in her. But then, I suppose one never can tell, can one?"

Tyrion finally turned to look up at Arya. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Arya shrugged. "Just that appearances aren't everything, and if even someone like Jaime Lannister can look beneath the surface and find beauty there, maybe there's hope for you and Sansa yet."

"What . . . what are you saying?"

But Arya didn't elaborate. She just gave Tyrion a knowing look and ambled off in the other direction.

Tyrion stood there in stunned silence, barely able to comprehend what had just happened. Had Arya been implying that just as Jaime could see the beauty in Brienne of Tarth, Sansa could see the beauty in him? The idea was utterly preposterous, and Tyrion didn't understand why Arya had even suggested it. As far as Tyrion knew, Arya hated him, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of game she was playing. Even after a month of living at Winterfell, Tyrion was still wary of his sister-in-law. He didn't know what she wanted from him or even what she thought of him. The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to be careful around her. Arya Stark loved her sister and her nephew more than anything in the world, and Tyrion knew that if he ever hurt them, there would be hell to pay.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

That night, the entire family gathered in Sansa's solar for the evening meal. It was a joyous affair, even for Sansa. Eddard had been thrilled by the arrival of his favorite uncle and had insisted upon sitting next to him at the table, monopolizing the conversation whenever he could. Eddard regaled Jaime with stories of his exploits with his father, detailing every last thing they had done together since Tyrion's arrival. There had been snowball fights and late-night stories and games of hide-and-seek in the crypts. Jaime laughed at the idea of Tyrion playing nursemaid, and Tyrion laughed right along with him, obviously overjoyed just to be in Jaime's presence.

Sansa said very little as the larger personalities at the table dominated the conversation. Between Tyrion, Jaime, Eddard, and Arya, there was barely a chance for anyone else to speak. Thankfully, Brienne was seated beside Sansa, and they were able to talk quietly between themselves while the rest of the table was otherwise engaged.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Brienne said, her tone conveying genuine gratitude. "I know that hosting our party must be a bit of an imposition, particularly in the midst of winter."

Sansa offered Brienne a warm smile. "No, not at all. Both Tyrion and Eddard are glad for the company, and I'm glad to see them both so happy."

"I know you've waited a long time for this."

It was obvious that Brienne wasn't talking about her and Jaime's visit. She was talking about Tyrion's return, and they both knew it.

"Yes, it's been a long time," Sansa replied evenly, trying to keep the emotion from her voice.

"And has it been all that you expected it to be?"

Sansa's eyes drifted to Tyrion. He was sitting at the other end of the table, laughing at something Arya was saying. He wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to Sansa, so she knew it was safe to answer. She looked down at her plate, avoiding Brienne's piercing blue eyes. "It has not," she said as she absently toyed with her food.

"I must admit, I am sorry to hear that. Jaime was quite certain that Lord Tyrion would be overjoyed at returning home and finding you and Eddard waiting for him. I'm sorry if that isn't the case."

Sansa wished that she and Brienne were not surrounded by a roomful of people at that moment. She knew Brienne quite well, they had spent a good deal of time together both before and during the war, and she wished nothing more than to confide in her old friend, but she couldn't. Not now. Not with Arya's keen set of ears just a few feet away. Not with Tyrion watching from the other side of the room.

"Nothing has been as either one of us expected," Sansa said, finally raising her eyes to look up at Brienne again. "But then, whatever is?"

"Very little, I'm afraid."

Jaime's voice suddenly carried down to them from the other end of the table. "What are you two ladies talking about so gravely down there? This is a celebration, not a funeral."

Brienne turned toward her husband. Even when she was annoyed with him, there was still love in her eyes, and it made Sansa's heart ache just a little. More than anything, she wished that she could have what Jaime and Brienne had. It was obvious to anyone who looked at them that they were deeply in love. It was like something out of a fairytale.

"Not all of us feel the need to laugh like hyenas at the dinner table," Brienne answered. "Sansa and I were just having a civilized conversation."

"Oh, is that what you call it? It seems to me that you and Lady Sansa think you're above the rest of us. I don't think I've seen either one of you laugh all night."

"Well," Brienne replied, "perhaps if you said something that was actually funny, we would laugh."

Jaime laughed at that, and so did the rest of the table, including Sansa.

"Oh," Jaime said, "that is a bit harsh, Lady Brienne. And certainly no way to talk to your lord husband."

"If my lord husband is so sensitive that he can't even take a slight against his sense of humor, or lack thereof, then perhaps he is not worthy of being my lord husband at all."

There was more laughter from all around, and Jaime's eyes sparkled as he gazed at his wife with genuine affection. She was a clever woman, and more than a fitting match for the likes of Jaime Lannister. They were perfect for each other, and Sansa had never felt happier for them, or more envious.

"Does this mean you intend to have our marriage annulled?" Jaime asked. "Tell me, will it be on the grounds that I lack a sense of humor or that I'm too sensitive for my own good?"

"Both."

Jaime's smile broadened, and Brienne's carefully honed façade finally broke, and she smiled back at him.

That must have been all Jaime had wanted, a smile from his wife, because he finally relented and went back to entertaining the rest of the table.

Sansa watched Brienne from the corner of her eye. She was blushing like a maid as she turned back to her meal, and Sansa's envy suddenly deepened. Tyrion never looked at her the way Jaime looked at Brienne. Jaime looked at Brienne as if the sun and moon rose in her eyes, as if she was the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the earth and he was unworthy of being in her presence. Sansa knew that Tyrion would never look at her like that, and it wounded her deeply.

Dinner lasted a bit longer than usual that night, and when it was finally time to retire for the evening, Eddard refused to leave Sansa's solar.

"It's past your bedtime," she said as she ushered him toward the door. Everyone else was still seated, lingering around the table.

"But Uncle Jaime just got here."

"Yes, and he will be here tomorrow too. You can see him in the morning. Maybe he'll take you out for some sparring if you ask him nicely."

"Will you?" Eddard asked, turning toward Jaime with large, hopeful eyes.

"I think that can be arranged," Jaime replied.

"Oh, thank you!" Eddard raced forward and launched himself at his uncle.

Jaime leaned down in his chair so that Eddard could wrap his arms around his neck. They shared a quick hug before Jaime ordered Eddard to bed.

Eddard did as he was told, not because Sansa had commanded it, but because his Uncle Jaime had, and he loved his uncle almost as much as he loved Tyrion.

"And no sneaking into your father's chamber tonight," Sansa warned as she led Eddard back toward the door. "It's been a long day, and he needs his rest."

"Yes, Mother." The words held just a hint of impertinence, but since Eddard was already on his way to bed, Sansa chose to ignore it.

Eddard toddled off with one of the maidservants, and Sansa turned back toward the table.

"It has been a long day," Brienne said as she laid her napkin next to her plate. "I think it would be best if we retired for the night as well."

Sansa couldn't keep the disappointment from showing on her face. It had been so long since she'd had a conversation with anyone that wasn't about grain stores or building plans or Eddard's paternity. For one night, she had actually been able to relax a little, to forget some of her cares and woes, as she'd listened to the happy voices chattering around her. But now, the evening was at an end, and suddenly, it was all over.

Sansa nodded graciously in Brienne's direction. "Of course," she said. "It is late."

Brienne rose, as did Jaime and Tyrion.

Jaime turned toward Sansa. "Thank you for a lovely evening. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so thoroughly."

"You are quite welcome," Sansa replied.

Brienne rounded the table, moving up alongside Jaime and gently slipping her arm around his. It was a small gesture, but it tortured Sansa just the same. They looked so beautiful together, and she was certain, once they were alone, they would do more than simply fall asleep in each other's arms.

Jaime and Brienne said their goodnights before leaving the room and heading for the Guest House. Sansa stared after them, suddenly wishing that she was Brienne of Tarth, not because she wanted Jaime Lannister, but because she wanted to be loved by a man more than she cared to admit.

Sansa didn't notice the silence around her until it was broken.

"Well," Arya said, finally getting up from the table, "I think I've had enough family togetherness for one night. Maybe Brienne will forgo her gown on the morrow and meet me in the yard for a sparring match as well, do you think?"

Sansa looked at Arya, a little surprised to see her still in the room. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. And I think Eddard might enjoy sparring with her too. She'll be gentler with him than either you or Jaime, and I think I'd prefer that."

Arya laughed. "Of course, you would. If you had your way, you'd keep him locked up in the library for the rest of his life, reading books and stuffing his head full of knowledge, just like his father."

Sansa glanced at Tyrion. He was standing beside the table, finishing off the last of the wine in Jaime's glass.

Sansa looked back at Arya again. "Eddard may be a Lannister, but he is also a Stark, and he must learn to fight like one. I've always known that. Don't pretend that I haven't. He can spar with whoever he likes tomorrow. I won't interfere."

Arya smiled at her in that cold, cool way she had before heading toward the door. She stopped for a moment when she finally reached her sister. "Goodnight, Sansa." Then, Arya turned her attention to her brother-in-law. "Tyrion."

But before either Sansa or Tyrion could reply, Arya was gone, closing the door behind her.

Sansa suddenly found herself alone in her solar with only her husband for company. She hadn't kept count of how many glasses of wine he'd consumed that evening, but looking at him now, she was certain it had been quite a few. His cheeks were flushed, and he seemed just a little unsteady on his feet. She wondered if he had imbibed so much because he had been celebrating Jaime's return or because he had felt just as uncomfortable as she had in the presence of such a happily married couple.

Sansa drifted away from the door, silently studying Tyrion from across the room. She watched as he reached for the flagon of wine in the center of the table and emptied the last of its contents into his own glass. Then, he turned around and looked up at her, holding the glass aloft as if to ask if she wanted to finish it off. Sansa shook her head, and Tyrion downed the wine himself.

When he was done, he slammed the glass down onto the table. "Well, that was a fun night, wasn't it?"

"You're drunk," Sansa said, suddenly certain of that fact.

"Yes, I am. And it feels wonderful! Have you ever been drunk, Sansa Stark?"

"Never."

Tyrion smiled wryly. "Then you don't know what you're missing." He turned and scanned the length of the table as if searching for another flagon, but there was only the one. He scowled and turned around to look up at Sansa again. "Perhaps we should call for more wine."

"I don't think that would be wise."

"Why?" Tyrion asked, his eyes lighting with mischief. "Don't you like to have fun?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then, why don't you? Have fun, that is? You never have fun. Never. Not even when everyone else around you is enjoying themselves. Why is that?"

Sansa didn't want to answer. Tyrion was drunk, that much was clear, and she was under no obligation to humor him. She hadn't seen him drunk since their wedding night, and the association alone made her uncomfortable. But Sansa didn't know how to simply walk away, so despite her overwhelming desire to end the conversation right then and there, she replied, "I am the Lady of Winterfell. I have responsibilities—"

Tyrion laughed, stopping her before she could go any further. "Responsibilities? What responsibilities did you have tonight other than to be a gracious hostess and to laugh at your guests' jokes? Oh, no, this isn't about responsibility, or honor, or duty, or any of that. This is about you hating the fact that I am here and wishing I were gone. If you didn't feel that you needed a father for Eddard and someone to help you rule Winterfell, you'd want nothing to do with me, and we both know it."

Sansa stared at Tyrion in utter shock. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and she didn't understand how he could even think such a thing. Perhaps the wine had gone to his head and he didn't know what he was saying.

"Is that what you think?" Sansa asked when she was finally capable of speech. "Is that what you really think?"

"Of course, it is. You've barely spoken to me in a fortnight. If it wasn't for our responsibilities in the Great Hall every day, I doubt we'd speak at all."

"I don't want you gone," Sansa said, her voice almost shrill. "I'm sorry if my devotion to duty and honor is somehow offensive to you. I'm sorry if I'm not entertaining enough for your liking, but I do have a duty to fulfill, a duty to my people and to Winterfell, and I can't be laughing and joking all the time like some people."

"I don't joke all the time. And frankly, I find very little to laugh about here at Winterfell."

Sansa tore her eyes away from Tyrion, afraid that she might say something she wouldn't be able to take back.

They stood there for a long time, neither one saying a word. Finally, Tyrion broke the awkward silence. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's all you ever do, isn't it? Hurt me?"

He didn't answer, and Sansa turned to look at him again.

He was staring across the room, watching the flames dancing in the hearth. "I think . . . I think we've gotten very good at hurting each other."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. That was the last thing she had expected Tyrion to say, and she wasn't going to waste the chance that he'd suddenly given her. "Then how do we fix it? How do we stop?"

Tyrion laughed, but the sound quickly turned into a sob. "I don't know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I just don't know."

Sansa didn't know either. She didn't know how to even begin mending what was broken between them. She didn't even know if it could be mended. As long as Tyrion didn't trust her, they could never have a happy marriage. Trust was more important to a marriage than even love, and there was very little trust between them.

"Did you see them tonight?" Tyrion asked, his eyes still fixed on the flames in the hearth.

Sansa was surprised by the question. "Did I see who?"

"Jaime and Brienne." Tyrion finally turned and looked up at Sansa again. "I've never seen my brother so happy. He loves her with all his heart. And she loves him. That much would be obvious to a blind man."

"They're very fortunate."

"Yes, they are. And we are not."

Sansa and Tyrion stared at each other across the chamber, and Sansa wondered why he had felt compelled to say such a thing. It hurt, more than she could ever put into words, and she did her best not to let the pain show on her face.

"What do you want, Tyrion?" Sansa asked, her voice trembling slightly. "What do you really want from me?"

"The truth," he said. "That's all. Tell me who Eddard's father is. I won't tell another living soul. I give you my word. But I must know the truth so that you and I can move forward, so that there can finally be some trust between us."

Had he said anything else, Sansa might have granted his request, but she was not about to lie to him for the sake of his pride. It wasn't her fault that he refused to believe the truth, and she would not tell him a falsehood just to keep the peace between them.

Sansa turned around and headed toward the door, intent on leaving. She refused to have this same argument with Tyrion again. It never got them anywhere, and it only ever drove them further apart.

"Sansa, wait!"

Sansa halted, just shy of the door, and listened as Tyrion shuffled awkwardly toward her, the wine obviously making it difficult for him to stay upright. When he finally stopped, she turned around to find him standing a few feet away, swaying slightly on his feet.

"What?" she asked, her tone as icy as a northern winter.

"What . . . what do you want?"

"Me?" She had expected him to question her again about Eddard's paternity, not to ask her what she wanted.

"Yes, you. I've been so caught up in my own suffering and my own self-pity that I haven't stopped to think about what you want from me."

"I want you to trust me, just as much as you want me to trust you. But we've already agreed that neither one of us can have what we want in that regard."

"How do you feel about my brother?"

Sansa stared at Tyrion in stunned silence. She didn't know why he had asked her such a thing. She could only imagine that it had something to do with him being drunk. "What kind of question is that?"

"I saw the way you were looking at him tonight, like you wanted something that you just couldn't have."

Sansa's mouth gaped open as she struggled to comprehend Tyrion's words. He was accusing her of wanting Jaime. That was it, wasn't it? Was he so petty and jealous that he couldn't see what was clearly right before his eyes? It wasn't Jaime's love she wanted, it was his, but she knew she was never going to get it.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Sansa asked, barely able to form the words.

"I don't know what to think. I hardly know you, Sansa Stark. All I do know is, the look in your eyes tonight was unmistakable."

Sansa shook her head, taking an unconscious step back. The closed door was right behind her, and she leaned against it, afraid she might crumble without the support. "I know you think me unfaithful, but to accuse me of wanting your brother is going a step too far. I like Jaime. He's smart and he's funny and he's charming."

"And handsome."

"And one of the most handsome men I have ever met," Sansa replied with unabashed bravado. "But you do me a disservice by believing that I want him. Although it may not have been true in the past, your brother is a good man now, and he loves Brienne with a passion that I . . ." Sansa faltered, struggling to catch her breath, "that I can't even begin to imagine. No man has ever felt about me the way that Jaime Lannister feels about Brienne of Tarth. When you see me looking at him with longing, it's not because I want him. It's because I want someone to look at me the way Jaime looks at Brienne. I want someone to love me like that."

There were tears in Sansa's eyes by the time she finished, and she didn't even bother trying to hide them. She was so tired, so lonely. She didn't care if Tyrion knew the truth about her anymore. Even though she had grown up a great deal in the past five years, deep down, she was still that same stupid little girl who had always believed in true love and fairytales and knights in shining armor. She was still a hopeless romantic whose heart ached every time she was reminded of what she could never have.

"Sansa—" Tyrion began, his voice warm and soft, but she was too afraid to let him finish.

"Don't," she said, cutting him off. "I don't want to hear whatever it is you have to say. You had your chance. Now, I would just like it if you would leave me alone."

Sansa turned then and opened the door.

Tyrion stared up at her with sad, sympathetic eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she scowled at him, stopping him cold.

Tyrion broke Sansa's gaze and walked to the door. He paused just long enough to say, "Good night, my lady," before moving past her and stepping into the hallway.

Sansa didn't even bother to reply. Instead, the instant Tyrion was over the threshold, she slammed the door closed behind him.

For a moment, Sansa just stood there, listening to the sound of Tyrion's footsteps retreating down the corridor. As soon as he was gone, she fell to her knees and began to weep.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

By the time Tyrion reached his chamber, he was trembling all over. He closed the door behind him and sank to the floor, leaning back against the door for support. He stared out into the darkened room, his mind fraught with uncertainty.

Sansa – _Sansa Stark_ – wanted to be in love.

It was a startling revelation, one Tyrion had never expected her to make. Of course, he'd always known that she had once been the kind of girl who loved ballads and fairy stories and dreamed of marrying her prince charming, but until that night, she had adamantly sworn that she had left those girlhood fantasies behind. And then, all it had taken was one evening in his brother's company, and she was suddenly that little girl again.

Tyrion wondered why Sansa had admitted the truth. She could have simply thrown him out of her solar without offering a single word of explanation. After all, he deserved no better. Not only had he accused her of infidelity, but he had accused her of wanting her own brother-in-law. He had insulted her honor, yet again, and she'd had every right to be furious with him.

Tyrion leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes. He could feel the effects of the wine already beginning to wear off. He hadn't drunk quite as much as he'd wanted to, and yet, he'd still made a mess of things. He should have just said goodnight and been on his way before he'd done something to hurt her again.

Because that was all he ever did, wasn't it? Hurt her? Even though she'd sworn that she wanted him to remain at Winterfell, every time they were alone together, it ended in disaster. Tonight, Sansa had confessed that she wanted someone to love her the way that Jaime loved Brienne. Well, Tyrion wanted the same thing, more than Sansa could ever know. But no matter how desperate Sansa was for love, Tyrion knew she would never let him be the one to love her, and he didn't blame her in the least. She deserved better. She deserved a handsome, charming, honorable man by her side, not a monster. And despite Tyrion's fine new clothes and the grudging respect he had gained at Winterfell since his arrival, deep down inside, he was still a monster, he was still the man who had murdered his own father and his former lover, and there was no way that either one of them could ever forget that.

Tyrion sighed heavily and forced his eyes open. Although the hour was late for everyone else, it wasn't particularly late for him. Even so, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so tired. All he wanted was a nice warm bed and the luxury of slipping into a dreamless oblivion.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally managed to struggle to his feet. He staggered to the bed, leaning up against the bedpost to strip off his clothes. Since his return, he had been outfitted with an entire wardrobe befitting his new title, but even though there was a clean nightshift waiting for him at the foot of the bed, he ignored it, choosing to sleep in his linen tunic instead.

Tyrion crawled up onto the mattress, burrowed beneath the furs, and willed himself to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Tyrion awoke with a violent headache, the direct result of his excessive drinking the night before. By the time he crawled out of bed and made himself presentable, he had missed breakfast.

Instead of trying to find himself something to eat, Tyrion went off in search of Eddard and Jaime. He found them in the yard, sparring with wooden swords, the snowy earth and the cold northern air doing nothing to dampen their spirits. Tyrion ascended the stairs that led to the covered bridge between the Great Hall and the armory. He settled himself in front of one of the open windows so that he could observe them.

Eddard spent most mornings in the yard training with Arya. It was as much a part of his education as the hours he spent behind closed doors with Maester Wolkan. Arya never went easy on the boy. She treated him like a full-grown man, not a child, and she always pushed him to the limit.

Jaime, however, was a bit gentler, and Tyrion enjoyed watching the two of them together. Seeing them side by side, it was impossible to ignore the resemblance between them, and Tyrion wondered if, perhaps, Sansa had been telling the truth about Eddard's paternity all along.

Tyrion shook his head, chasing away the thought. It was too painful for him to even comprehend. If Eddard was his son, it meant that Sansa had been faithful to him, had been patiently awaiting his return, for five long years, and Tyrion didn't want to imagine that kind of suffering for her. He much preferred to think that Sansa had known love at least once in her life, other than the single night she had been forced to let him into her bed. She deserved some happiness because, gods knew, she had suffered more than enough.

But it wasn't just for Sansa's sake that Tyrion refused to believe that the boy was his. He'd spent his whole life playing the fool for everyone – his father, his sister, Shae. Tysha. He didn't ever want to play the fool again. And if he let himself believe that Eddard was his son, truly believe, when the truth finally came out – as he was sure it someday would – he would be devastated beyond imagining. Tyrion had known great heartache in his life, but he didn't think anything could ever compare to the prospect of believing that Eddard was his son and then having that belief destroyed. It was better never to believe than to have his heart broken again.

The activity in the yard below intensified, and Eddard finally managed to strike a blow to Jaime's abdomen. "I did it!" Eddard cried out in victory. "You're dead."

Jaime looked down to find Eddard's sword pressed firmly against his stomach. He chuckled softly. "So it would seem." Then, he collapsed onto the snowy ground, lying there like a lifeless corpse.

Eddard laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. He approached Jaime with confident steps, poking him a few more times with the tip of his sword, just to make sure he was really dead. But Jaime still had some life left in him. Without a hint of warning, he sat up, snaked his right arm around Eddard's waist, and dragged him to the ground, laughing as he shoved a fistful of snow down the back of Eddard's tunic.

Eddard squealed in delight, squirming from Jaime's grip and climbing to his feet. When they were both standing again, Eddard threw a particularly large snowball at Jaime, hitting him square in the chest.

Jaime leaned down to scoop up a handful of snow, but before he could reach the ground, Arya interrupted them.

"That's enough of that," she said, stepping between Jaime and Eddard, instantly putting an end to their fun. "The yard is for serious training, not snowball fights. Brienne and I would like our turn, if you don't mind."

Tyrion held his breath as he waited to see what would happen next. He was silently hoping that Jaime would throw a snowball at Arya, but even the legendary Kingslayer was not that brave. Jaime stood up straight, wiping the snow from his gloves and turning his attention to Eddard. "Shall we call it a day then?"

"Yes," Eddard said eagerly. "I want to see Aunt Arya and Aunt Brienne fight with real swords."

Jaime smiled at him gently, then reached out to muss the golden curls atop his head. "All right then. Good fight."

Eddard beamed at Jaime's praise before he turned and ran off to the edge of the yard. He climbed up onto an empty wagon and settled in, his eyes focused on Arya as he waited for the fight to begin.

Brienne stepped forward then, casting a quick glance at Jaime. The instant their eyes met, something magical passed between them, something Tyrion could feel even from yards away, and suddenly, he remembered what had driven him to drink so much the night before.

Jaime mounted the stairs to the covered bridge and joined Tyrion, standing just to his right. Together, they stared down into the yard, watching as the fight began.

"You have a real knack with the boy," Tyrion said. Although Tyrion and Eddard often played with wooden swords, that's all it ever was, play. Tyrion had no skill as a swordsman, and so he could do little more with Eddard than pretend that they were going on adventures together, hunting dragons and fighting White Walkers. It was nothing like the training Eddard received from his aunts and uncle. Such training was simply beyond Tyrion's abilities.

"Well, I should have a knack with him," Jaime replied. "He is my nephew after all."

A bitter laugh escaped Tyrion's throat, but he refused to say anything in reply.

Jaime rested his forearms on the windowsill and leaned down so that he and Tyrion were closer in height. "Do you want to tell me why you believe that Eddard isn't your son?"

"I'd be more inclined to believe that he's your son than mine," Tyrion said. "Just look at him. It's like seeing Tommen all over again."

A heavy silence settled between them, and Tyrion was instantly sorry that he'd mentioned his nephew. He knew how painful the loss was for Jaime, and he hadn't meant to dredge up the tragedies of the past. He'd regretted it the day before when he'd forced Jaime to mention Tommen, and he knew he had made a grave misstep now. Tyrion wanted to apologize, but he feared that anything he said would just make things worse.

It was a while before Jaime spoke again. "He does look like Tommen," he said. "Which is why I have to wonder why you don't believe that he's your son."

Tyrion turned toward Jaime, and Jaime pulled back just enough to look down at him.

"Look at me," Tyrion said. "What do you see?"

"My pain-in-the-ass brother."

Tyrion couldn't help but laugh at that. "Besides that?"

Jaime sighed in exasperation. "Is this because you're a dwarf and he's not?"

"It's more than that."

"How so?"

"Sansa Stark is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and I am the Demon Monkey of Casterly Rock. She and I were only together one time—"

"All it takes is one time."

Tyrion ignored Jaime's comment. "My point is, after she disappeared from King's Landing, gods only know where she went and who she was with."

"She went to the Vale with Littlefinger. Everyone knows that," Jaime said plainly.

"Yes, but who knows what they encountered on their travels, _who_ they encountered on their travels. The boy's father could be just about anyone."

Jaime shook his head. "I'm surprised Sansa doesn't want your head on a pike," he said as he turned back toward the yard to watch Brienne and Arya again.

Tyrion turned as well, though he saw little of what was going on below them. "It isn't quite that bad. I don't think she wants my head on a pike just yet. I think she'd much prefer that I simply do my duty and keep my distance."

"And acknowledge Eddard as your trueborn son."

"Yes, that too."

Jaime paused again. "So, what is it? What is it that's really keeping you from seeing what's clearly in front of your face?"

Tyrion's gaze drifted across the yard to Eddard. He was still sitting on the empty wagon, thoroughly enraptured by the sight of his aunts fighting a few feet away. His feet thumped rhythmically against the wooden wagon wheel as if he was impatient to join in the sparring himself. He was everything that Tyrion could have ever wanted in a son – brave, passionate, clever. And that, more than anything, was why Tyrion couldn't let himself believe that the boy was his. The gods had never been kind to Tyrion before, and he knew this was all just a trap, the setup to some sick joke that the gods were playing for their own amusement.

"Well?" Jaime asked when Tyrion didn't answer.

"There's no way that I could ever make a child as perfect and beautiful as Eddard," Tyrion replied, his eyes never leaving the boy.

"Just because you're a dwarf doesn't mean that you couldn't have fathered a normal child."

"You don't know that. How many dwarves have you met in your life? And how many of them have had children, normal or otherwise?"

"Grand Maester Tarly says it's possible. He found accounts of it in several old scrolls in the Citadel library in Oldtown."

"Grand Maester Tarly?" Jaime had said the name as if Tyrion should know who the man was, but other than the fact that he was probably a member of House Tarly, Tyrion knew nothing of him.

"The new Grand Maester of the Red Keep. He's one of King Jon's most trusted advisors. They were in the Night's Watch together."

Tyrion found this bit of information quite interesting, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of man this Tarly fellow was. He had obviously made a significant impression on Jon Snow if he'd been appointed Grand Maester. But that was a conversation for another day.

"Yes, well," Tyrion said, "just because there have been dwarves who have fathered normal children before, doesn't mean that I'm one of them. Besides, like I said, Sansa is an extremely beautiful woman. She can have any man she wants, and it's impossible for me to imagine that she kept herself only unto me after we parted ways. I don't blame her, of course. I would have done the same thing in her position. I just don't like the fact that she insists upon lying about it."

"Have you always been this deeply in denial?"

Tyrion nodded. "Probably. About a lot of things, I suppose."

"That boy over there," Jaime said, "is four and a half years old. He had to have been conceived during Sansa's stay in King's Landing. And unless you're accusing her of sleeping with someone else while the two of you were still sharing a bedchamber, how can you claim that Eddard isn't your son?"

Tyrion shook his head. After five years of wandering aimlessly through Essos, time had become a hazy concept for him. In his memory, there were long periods of time that stretched on infinitely and others that flitted by in the blink of an eye. Although it was difficult for Tyrion to fully grasp just how much time had passed since he'd fled King's Landing, he knew that it was entirely possible that someone else had fathered Sansa's child.

"Perhaps the boy came prematurely," Tyrion answered. "Just because a babe is supposed to take nine months to gestate, doesn't mean they always do. That child could have been conceived a fortnight, a moonturn, two moonturns, after Sansa left King's Landing."

From the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Jaime shake his head. "You know, you're lucky she's even speaking to you at this point. She has every right to throw you out if she wanted to."

"Ah, but she doesn't want to. Not because she wants me around, but because she needs help running Winterfell. The war hit pretty hard up here, and it's definitely not a job for one person."

"And that's it? That's the only reason you think she wants you here?"

"And she wants a father for the boy."

Jaime lifted his left hand, and a second later, Tyrion felt something strike the back of his head.

"Ow!" Tyrion exclaimed, turning dark eyes on Jaime. "What the hell was that for?"

"For being an idiot. And maybe to knock some sense into you. Just be glad it wasn't my other hand."

Tyrion lifted his fingers to the back of his head and felt for a lump, certain he would find one there. His head was already splitting from the night before and getting smacked by Jaime had made the pain considerably worse.

Jaime sighed and pushed himself away from the wall, standing to his full height. "Do you know what Brienne would do to me if I even hinted at the idea that the child she's carrying isn't mine?"

Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you saying that Lady Brienne is pregnant?"

A soft smile quirked Jaime's lips, and Tyrion knew the answer before his brother even replied. "We're hoping it's born in the spring."

Tyrion stared up at Jaime in silent wonder. After everything that Jaime had been through, after all the loss he had suffered, it was heartening to think that he was making a new family all his own. "I . . . I don't know what to say," Tyrion replied. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Thank you, Tyrion. That means a lot to me." Jaime turned his gaze toward the yard again. "We haven't told anyone yet. But we won't be able to keep it a secret forever."

Tyrion looked down at Brienne. She was as lean and agile as ever, and it was hard for him to imagine that deep within her womb a tiny little life was taking shape. Out in the yard, sword in hand, she didn't look at all like a lady. She looked like a warrior, and Tyrion found himself wondering what kind of mother she would make.

"Do you really think it's wise to let her keep sparring?" Tyrion asked, his eyes still fixed on his new sister-in-law.

"Brienne knows what she's doing. She's not too far along yet, so there's no danger to the baby. Arya fights fair. I'm not worried."

Tyrion tore his eyes away from the yard and looked at Jaime again. It took Jaime just a bit longer to turn away from Brienne and look at Tyrion.

"Why did you make her travel with you all the way to Winterfell just to see me?" Tyrion asked. "Surely, in her condition, she would have been better off if she'd stayed at Casterly Rock."

"She's fine," Jaime said. "In fact, she insisted upon joining me. Neither one of us wanted to be apart for even a single night, much less weeks or months on end. I couldn't leave her behind."

Tyrion understood why, of course. Jaime didn't even have to say it. The love he felt for his wife was clearly reflected in his eyes, so deep and abiding that it made Tyrion's soul ache with envy. "She's a very lucky woman," Tyrion said, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice.

"No, I am a very lucky man. I don't deserve her, and I know it. Not after everything I've done. But for some inexplicable reason, she loves me, and I could never walk away from that. I live to make Brienne happy. I love her so much that, sometimes, I can't even put it into words. She's here," Jaime said, clutching his heart, "all the time, making me who I am, making me whole. And I would never do anything to jeopardize that. Never."

Jaime's words sounded like a warning, but Tyrion hadn't asked for advice. "I'm happy for you, Jaime. For both of you. I know you don't think you deserve Brienne's love, but you're wrong. You've come a long way since you lived to serve Cersei, and you've changed more than any of us."

Jaime shook his head. "You think you know all my sins, brother, but you don't. I—"

Tyrion held up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't want to know."

"But Bran Stark—"

"Please, let's just leave the past in the past. Whatever you've done, the woman you love has forgiven you for it, and I forgive you as well. We need never speak of it again." Tyrion turned away, desperate to put an end to the conversation.

"All right, if that's how you feel."

"It is."

"In that case, I have one piece of brotherly advice for you, and you're going to stand here and listen to it whether you like it or not."

Tyrion was sure he knew what was coming, and he was in no mood for it. "If it has anything to do with Sansa Stark, you can save yourself the trouble."

"I'm not the only one who's done terrible things in the past. You . . . you murdered our father."

"Yes, I know. I was there."

"You murdered your lover."

"Again," Tyrion said, "you're not telling me anything that I don't already know."

"And I'm sure you've done many other terrible things that I know nothing about."

"Well, it's nice to know that you think so highly of me."

"What I'm trying to say is, we've both done unspeakable things in the past, but that doesn't mean that we don't deserve to be loved. It doesn't mean that we don't deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy, Tyrion, more than most people I know. Life has been cruel to you from the moment you took your very first breath. Now, you have happiness staring you in the face, and you refuse to reach out for it because you think you don't deserve it, because you think you're some kind of monster who is fated to walk the earth tortured and alone."

"That's not it," Tyrion replied, but then quickly reconsidered. "Well, yes, it is. But no, it isn't. It's not just that. Not really." His gaze settled on Eddard again, the beautiful little boy with the golden hair and the sparkling blue eyes. He was everything Tyrion had ever wanted and the one thing he simply couldn't let himself have. "Happiness is an illusion," Tyrion said, "a trap, the precursor to the cruelest of jokes the gods choose to play on us mere mortals. I won't let myself be fooled, not again. Not for you or for anyone else."

Tyrion stepped away from the window and turned toward the Great Hall. He was done talking for one morning. He didn't want to hear another word out of Jaime about how he should live his life. Yes, they had both sinned, there was no doubt about that, but they weren't on even footing. Jaime had always been handsome and brave, heroic and strong. The ground itself had cowered at his feet since the day he'd been born. The world had been created for men like Jaime Lannister. It was kind to them, and it forgave their sins far more readily than it forgave the sins of misshapen dwarves. Tyrion knew Jaime's intentions were good, but he'd had enough of his brother's lecturing for one day.

Before Jaime could stop him, Tyrion walked away. Despite the pounding in his head, he was off to find himself a much-needed flagon of wine.


	17. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Since I'll be spending the majority of this week at the annual Romance Writers of America conference, I won't have any time for editing, which means that the next chapter of this story is going to be delayed. Instead of posting a week from now, it's more likely that I'll post in two weeks. I'm so sorry, but I think it's going to be unavoidable. I will do my best to reply to reviews before I leave, but if for some reason I'm unable to do that, please know that I will reply to everyone once I've gotten home and had a chance to recuperate.

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Chapter Sixteen

Sansa didn't have a chance to be alone with Brienne until late that afternoon. Brienne and Arya had spent the morning sparring in the yard and hadn't come inside until right before luncheon. They'd had just enough time to clean themselves up before coming to the table. Eddard and Jaime had joined them as well, but Tyrion had been conspicuously absent, a fact that still rankled Sansa as she and Brienne sat alone in her sitting room.

Although Brienne had gone to the yard that morning in fighting leathers, she was now dressed in a velvety gown of deepest green. The darkness of the fabric warmed her pale complexion, and she looked undeniably pretty in the late afternoon light. There was a lovely glow about her skin, and Sansa assumed it was the result of hours of vigorous exercise in the cold, northern air.

As they sat in the matching chairs by the hearth, Sansa tended her embroidery and Brienne quietly sipped a cup of tea. Sansa had tried to teach Brienne the intricacies of needlework once, but she'd had no more success with Brienne than Septa Mordane had had with Arya. Perhaps there was something about wielding a sword that precluded a woman from being able to wield a sewing needle. One was so heavy and cumbersome and the other fine and delicate. They were both pointy at one end, but that was where the similarities ended.

"Eddard is very happy to see Jaime," Sansa said, her head bent over the hoop in her hands. "I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."

"Oh, not at all. Jaime loves his nephew, and he enjoys every moment of their time together. You should have seen them in the yard this morning. I can't remember the last time I've seen Jaime so happy."

Sansa glanced up, offering Brienne a sly smile. "He's always happy when he's around you."

A slight blush crept into Brienne's cheeks. "Yes, well, I am happy when he's around me too."

Sansa's smile broadened, and she went back to her work. She was truly happy for Jaime and Brienne, especially for Brienne. Brienne of Tarth had been her mother's sworn sword, and when Sansa had needed protection from the world, and from Littlefinger, Brienne had been right by her side. Sansa had never met a truer, more loyal soul than the Maid of Tarth, and she was glad that Brienne had finally found happiness. She deserved it more than anyone else Sansa knew.

"I see though that you and Tyrion do not feel the same way," Brienne said, breaking through Sansa's thoughts.

Sansa's fingers stilled on her needle, and it took her a moment to compose herself. She'd known they couldn't avoid the subject forever. In fact, Tyrion was the reason Sansa had asked Brienne to tea in the first place. She wanted to talk to someone about him, and she knew she'd find a much more sympathetic ear in Brienne than she would in Arya.

Sansa rested her needlework on her lap and looked up at Brienne. "No, I can't say that we do."

"But you've waited so long for him to return to you. Even when Jaime and I left for Casterly Rock after the war, I know you were still hoping he would come home. And not just because you wanted him to rule Winterfell by your side."

The heat rose in Sansa's cheeks, and she fought to hold Brienne's gaze. Brienne knew Sansa's heart better than she knew it herself. This wasn't the first time Sansa had confided in Brienne about Tyrion, though she'd never made her feelings explicitly known. "Unfortunately, the fantasy I created in my mind is nothing like reality. Tyrion refuses to believe that Eddard is his son, and there is nothing I can do to convince him otherwise."

Brienne's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Has he given you a reason why he refuses to believe it?"

"Too many. He doesn't believe anything I say on the matter. He simply doesn't trust me, and if he refuses to trust me, I have no idea how to trust him."

Brienne was thoughtful for a moment, her eyes looking through Sansa as she worked on the problem. "But surely he can see that Eddard is a Lannister. It's as clear as day to anyone who looks at him."

"Even if he does, he refuses to admit it. Perhaps he thinks that Eddard is a Lannister, just not his son."

"Does he think Jaime is the father?" Brienne asked, clearly horrified.

Sansa laughed. "I don't know what he thinks. And honestly, at this point, I don't want to know." She turned back to her needlework, the pain suddenly too much for her to bear. She sewed steady, even stitches, imagining each time she pierced the fabric that she was piercing Tyrion's flesh instead.

"And yet, you still love him."

The needle slipped in Sansa's hand, and she pricked the tip of her finger. She stared down in mute shock as the blood began to pool a dark crimson.

Sansa had never admitted that she loved Tyrion. Not to Brienne, not even to herself. She felt an affection for him, but that was all she was willing to admit. He was her husband, after all, and back in King's Landing, he had protected her as valiantly as any knight. In the quiet darkness of their bedchamber, he had made her a woman, loving her with a tenderness that made her heart sing even now. She had spent five long years without him, building him up in her memory until he had become more fantasy than reality. She loved the fantasy, she admitted, but she did not love Tyrion Lannister.

It took a moment for Sansa to recover from her shock. When she did, she raised her finger to her lips and sucked the blood dry. She didn't know how to respond to Brienne. She didn't know what to say.

Sansa finally looked up. There was deep concern etched on Brienne's brow, and Sansa hated the fact that Brienne was so worried for her. Brienne was no longer sworn to protect Sansa, and yet, she seemed gravely concerned for her welfare.

"I don't love him," Sansa said, her voice hollow. "I never did."

"Are you certain? It's all right if you do, you know? No one's going to judge you. He is your husband after all."

"I don't even know him anymore. I thought I did, but he's returned a changed man. And whatever I may have felt for him once has long since disappeared. It's slowly slipped away, day by day, since his return. In another moonturn, another year, I doubt I'll even be able to stand the sight of him."

"I'm sorry, Sansa. I know this isn't what you'd hoped for."

Sansa was struck by the sudden urge to cry, but she resisted it admirably. "I was foolish to hope for anything, really. I barely knew Tyrion when I escaped King's Landing. Anything I may have felt for him was just a fantasy of my own making. Tyrion Lannister – the real Tyrion Lannister – is not the man I thought he was. And I was foolish not to realize it sooner."

"But are you sure?"

"Of what? That he's a lying, whoring, drunken misanthrope who would rather hate me and feel sorry for himself than even attempt to be happy? Yes, I am very sure of that."

Brienne nodded, Sansa's tirade putting an end to whatever argument she had been intending to make.

"I'm sorry, Brienne," Sansa said, truly contrite. "I didn't mean to snap. I know you're just trying to help."

"I wish there was something I _could_ do to help. It pains me to see you suffering so. Jaime and I came here hoping to see you and Tyrion happily enjoying domestic life. I don't think either one of us expected anything like this."

"Neither did I."

Brienne sighed, looking away for a moment, gazing into the roaring fire beside them as if she could somehow find answers there. When she finally looked at Sansa again, she said, "Maybe Jaime can talk some sense into him. He is his older brother after all. And a Lannister. Maybe Jaime can make him listen to reason."

"I doubt it. Tyrion is impossibly stubborn, as stubborn as Eddard is when he refuses to spend the night in his own bed or to eat the green, leafy vegetables on his dinner plate. And yet, Tyrion refuses to see the resemblance."

Brienne chuckled softly, relieving some of the tension in the room. "Well, if you put it like that, I can't imagine why he hasn't already claimed the boy as his own."

A smile pulled at Sansa's lips, but she fought it back. "It's frightening just how alike they are. Eddard is every bit as stubborn as Tyrion. And as smart, and as clever. When they sit together and read every night after the evening meal, it's as if Tyrion is telling stories to his own shadow. They are so similar sometimes, in their speech and in their manner, that it takes my breath away. And then, I feel the pain of Tyrion's rejection of us both so acutely that my heart aches with the tragedy of it all."

"But he hasn't really rejected you, has he?" Brienne reasoned. "He's still here. And he doesn't have to read to Eddard. He could completely ignore him if he liked, and no one could say a word about it."

Yes, that was true. Sansa wasn't entirely sure why Tyrion treated Eddard the way he did. Even though Tyrion didn't believe that Eddard was his son, he had never once given the boy the slightest indication that he had any doubts about being his father. Sansa was thankful for that at least. It was the one saving grace in an otherwise disastrous situation.

"I am willing to admit," Sansa replied, "that as far as his interactions with Eddard are concerned, Tyrion's behavior has been beyond reproach. But as for the rest of it, I fear he only remains at Winterfell because Arya has threatened him with bodily harm if he even thinks about leaving."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

Sansa unconsciously straightened her spine. "I most certainly do. When he first arrived, he only intended to stay the night. We let everyone believe that he was just a messenger because we feared what would happen if he disappeared the very next day. It took a great deal of persuading just to convince him to let me send a raven to Jon telling him that he was alive. If a storm hadn't rolled in that night, he would have left the very next morning."

"Have you heard back from Jon?" Brienne asked in an even, thoughtful tone.

"Yes. He commanded me to spy on Tyrion and report back to him. So far, I've had nothing to report but a job well done."

"Really?" Brienne arched a brow in question.

"Tyrion has proven to be a fair and just Lord of Winterfell. And while I wouldn't say that the people adore him, he has managed to earn their grudging respect. I don't know what I'd do without him, quite frankly. The only place we work well together is in the Great Hall. But once our duties for the day are done, we barely speak."

Brienne was quiet for a moment, her cheeks suddenly tinging a darker shade of pink. "May I ask you a very personal question?"

Sansa wasn't sure she wanted to know what was coming, but if she couldn't trust Brienne, she couldn't trust anyone. "What is it?"

"Have you and Lord Tyrion shared a bed since he returned to Winterfell?"

Sansa blushed so fiercely that she was certain her cheeks were as red as her hair. Her first instinct was to look away, to hide her embarrassment. But she was a married woman, and so was Brienne, and there was no shame in talking about such things in the privacy of her own sitting room.

"No, we have not," Sansa replied, surprised that she was able to keep her voice from trembling.

"And do you want to?"

Sansa stared at Brienne, the question hanging heavily in the air between them. Sansa didn't want to discuss her own desires with anyone. She'd been as celibate as a septa since the night Eddard had been conceived, and she always did her best to pretend that she was perfectly content to be so. But she knew the truth was written on her face, as clearly as if she had spoken the words, so what was the point in trying to deny it? "I . . . I wouldn't be averse to performing my wifely duties if Lord Tyrion insisted."

"And do you think he will insist?"

"No." Sansa didn't even have to think about her answer. Despite his claim that he hadn't bedded another woman since they'd been wed, she was certain that Tyrion had found other ways to satisfy his lust. She hadn't received a single report that he'd snuck off to the winter town to find himself some intimate company, but that didn't mean that he hadn't. All it meant was that he hadn't gotten caught. "My husband does not need me to fulfill his carnal desires. I'm sure he has other women for that."

"Sansa." Brienne's tone was surprisingly reproachful. "Don't you think you're being a bit unfair to Lord Tyrion?"

"In what way? He's always had a reputation for consorting with whores. I am not naïve enough to think that Tyrion remained faithful to me for five long years. I may once have been a very stupid little girl, but I'm not a little girl anymore."

"I don't know what Lord Tyrion did while he was across the Narrow Sea, but while he's been here at Winterfell, are you certain that he's been unfaithful to you?"

"There is little in this world that I am more certain of." Sansa looked away, finally taking up her needlework again and attacking it with renewed vigor.

From the periphery of her vision, Sansa saw Brienne lift her teacup, and for a while, they just sat there in silence.

Sansa's cheeks were flaming red, and it wasn't from the heat of the fire. She was angry, angrier than she had been in a long time. She had wanted so much from Tyrion, thought so much of Tyrion. Although she had never truly expected him to come home, fall into her arms, and confess his undying love, she had thought that they'd be able to make each other happy, or at least, content. She had not expected the strife, mistrust, and animosity that had existed between them since the day he had returned, and it wounded her to her very soul.

Sansa struggled for some time to get her temper under control, but it wasn't until she stopped stabbing her needlework that Brienne spoke again.

"I was glad when you asked me to join you for tea this afternoon," Brienne said softly. "There's something I wanted to tell you about me and Jaime."

Sansa sighed heavily, willing away the last of her anger. She wanted nothing more than to be a good friend to Brienne, but she couldn't do that if she was still furious about Tyrion. Sansa looked up slowly, happy to see a warm, kind look waiting for her in Brienne's eyes.

Brienne offered Sansa a sheepish smile. "We're going to have a baby."

Sansa was stunned by the news, and it took her a moment to react. The pain and the anger of a moment before were suddenly forgotten, and she smiled brightly at Brienne. "That's wonderful!"

Brienne's hand instinctively went to her belly. "We just found out before we left Casterly Rock." She laughed. "Jaime offered to cancel the trip, to wait for Tyrion to come to us, but I wouldn't allow it. He was worried about me traveling in my condition, but I'm not even showing yet, and I'm a lot heartier than that."

Sansa couldn't chase the smile from her face. "I'm glad you did come. No wonder you're glowing. You're going to have a baby."

"Jaime Lannister's baby. Can you believe it?"

Sansa laughed. "Oh, I can. I see the way he looks at you. Truth be told, I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner."

"It wasn't for lack of trying, I can assure you."

Sansa's blush deepened, but she didn't look away. "I am truly happy for you, Brienne. After everything you've both been through, you deserve this. You deserve to be happy."

"You deserve to be happy too," Brienne said levelly.

Sansa turned her attention back to her needlework, unable to stand Brienne's gaze any longer. "I am as happy as I could ever expect to be," Sansa said. "I have Eddard. I have Winterfell. What more could I want?"

"We both know what more you could want."

Sansa's whole body flushed cold, and suddenly, she didn't want to talk about Tyrion anymore. It hurt too much. "I'm too practical to go on wanting things that I can never have," Sansa said, keeping her voice even with the rhythm of her sewing. "I've already learned that lesson more than once. I'm done hoping and praying for things beyond my reach. Now, all I want is for Eddard to be healthy and happy. I have no other desires beyond that."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Brienne replied.

Sansa held her breath, trying to keep her pulse from racing. She loved Brienne dearly, but she couldn't stop herself from envying her. Brienne had the life that Sansa had always dreamed of – a loving husband, a happy home, a baby on the way. Sansa would never have another child, or her husband's love, and it was all too much for her to bear.

"You can doubt all you want," Sansa said, "but it's true. I can't allow myself to want more than I have. My heart simply couldn't survive the disappointment."

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Brienne put her teacup down on the table beside her. She looked up from her sewing, thinking that Brienne was about to leave, but she wasn't. She was just sitting there, watching Sansa with a heartbreaking sadness in her eyes, and Sansa knew then that Brienne pitied her, and it made her feel a great deal worse.

"My good news has wounded you deeply, hasn't it?" Brienne said.

Sansa wanted to deny it, but she couldn't. She was sure Brienne could already see the answer in her eyes. "It isn't you. I don't begrudge you your happiness. Truly," Sansa said, attempting a smile. "But you have the life I've always wanted. You have a husband who loves you, a husband you adore, and you're about to bear his child. I'm certain he doesn't have any doubt that it is, in fact, his child, does he?"

"No, of course not."

"I envy you all of that. I don't want to – gods know I don't want to – but I can't help myself. It simply hurts too much."

"You know, it isn't too late for you and Tyrion."

"Yes, it is. As long as we continue to mistrust each other, there can be nothing more between us."

"I'm not entirely sure that's true."

"I can't love a man I can't trust, and Tyrion will never care for me, so what could there possibly be between us?"

"Winterfell only has one heir. And while that's better than it could be, the truth is, most noble families produce a great many heirs, just to make sure that their name carries on."

"What does that have to do with me and Tyrion?"

"Your mother and father had five children, three of whom were male. And yet, after all was said and done, who inherited Winterfell? You. Three sons and not one of them was able to take over after the war. Robb and Rickon are gone. Bran is in no state to rule. You have one son, Sansa. One. Your parents had three, and even that wasn't enough. Maybe you and Lord Tyrion need to concentrate your efforts on producing another heir while you still have the chance."

Sansa's heart beat a frantic rhythm, and she could feel the blood rushing through her veins, heating her skin. She couldn't believe what Brienne was suggesting. It was simply unthinkable. "I . . . I could never . . . we could never . . ."

"Why not? You've done it before, and you said yourself, you wouldn't mind terribly if Tyrion asked you to fulfill that particular marital duty again."

"Yes, but . . . I could never ask him to do such a thing."

"Even though it makes perfect, practical sense?"

It did make perfect, practical sense. Tyrion and Sansa were both heirs to great houses. They had one child. Just one. And if anything happened to that child, gods forbid, their legacy would die with him. Eventually, Winterfell would fall to someone outside the Stark family, and Sansa would fail every last one of her ancestors, but especially her mother and father. "I . . . I don't think he wants to."

"You won't know until you ask."

The heat rose even higher in Sansa's cheeks. "I can't imagine asking him such a thing."

"Well, I think you should. He is the Lord of Winterfell, after all, and he does have a duty to protect the future of the north. The best way to do that is to produce another heir. I don't think it would be an unreasonable request on your part, if you are so inclined," Brienne said, a knowing look in her eyes.

Sansa almost laughed. She could sit there all day denying the truth, but Brienne knew what she wanted. Brienne knew that Sansa wanted Tyrion in her bed, knew that she wanted to be close to him again. And Brienne, true friend that she was, was giving Sansa a way to get exactly what she wanted without having to sacrifice her pride. Sansa was grateful for the advice, but she couldn't quite say the words. "I . . . I will consider it."

"Good," Brienne replied with a soft smile, obviously pleased with Sansa's answer. "And there's no rush. I don't think Lord Tyrion is going anywhere anytime soon."

"I sincerely doubt that. I'm starting to suspect that Tyrion will leave when you and Jaime depart for Casterly Rock. It's been his intention to return there from the start, and when you and Jaime go, it will give him the perfect excuse to leave."

Brienne's smile faded. "I'm so sorry, Sansa."

Sansa shook her head. "I suppose, since you're with child, you'll have to leave here sooner rather than later, won't you?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Jaime had hoped to stay here for as long as you would have us, but under the circumstances, it would probably be best if we stayed no more than a moonturn, while I can still travel without danger to the child."

_A moonturn._ That wasn't long at all, really, not after it had taken them just as long to travel to Winterfell from Casterly Rock. Sansa was disappointed, but she understood. Jaime and Brienne had only come north so that Jaime and Tyrion could be reunited. Now that the brothers had seen each other again, Jaime and Brienne had more pressing matters to attend to back home, and Sansa knew that Tyrion would leave right along with them. Although he hadn't mentioned leaving in more than a fortnight, she was certain he wouldn't pass up such an attractive opportunity to go. He could travel in good company, his beloved brother by his side, all the way back to his childhood home. After all, what possible reason could he have to stay? Tyrion had already done his duty by Winterfell. He had sat in the Great Hall nearly every day since his arrival, offering his counsel and advice. But the snows were beginning to thaw, and life would soon get easier for the northern folk. There was no imperative to make Tyrion stay. Sansa was certain that he would be gone before another month passed, and she would never see him again.

"We will miss you," Brienne said. "Very much. Maybe, when the baby is born, you and Eddard can travel to Casterly Rock to visit us. I know Jaime would like that, and I have no doubt that Eddard would too."

"I doubt Tyrion would approve. Once he is rid of us, I am certain he would prefer to stay rid of us."

"Oh, Sansa."

"It's all right," Sansa said, holding back her tears with a bittersweet smile, "it's fine."

"It's not fine."

"Well, it has to be. Eddard and I spent years living without Tyrion, and we can do so again."

"I wish you didn't have to."

"I wish we didn't have to either. But I learned a long time ago that life isn't ever truly fair and we must suffer the whims of the gods as best we can."

"You could ask him to stay, you know?"

"No, I couldn't. I'm sure he's made up his mind, and nothing I can do or say will sway him."

"Then ask him to give you a child before he goes. It's the least he can do if he intends to abandon you again."

Sansa didn't think she had the courage to ask Tyrion to visit her bed again, but Brienne had a valid point. Tyrion was about to abandon his family and all of his duties as the Lord of Winterfell. The least he could do was try to produce an heir before leaving. "We'll see," Sansa said, unable to commit herself to anything more.

Sansa turned back to her needlework, her hands suddenly trembling. Since the morning after his arrival, she'd been certain that she and Tyrion would never lie together again. But now, the possibility was suddenly before her, and it made every nerve in her body hum with anticipation. She knew Tyrion didn't want her, knew he had absolutely no use for her, and yet, she wanted him. And maybe, just maybe, she would have him again, even if it was just for one night.

Sansa's heart fluttered against her ribs, and she tried her best to remain calm. Her hopes were starting to soar, and she knew she needed to keep them fettered to the ground, lest she foolishly risk her heart again.


	18. Chapter 17

Author's Note: I apologize for the lengthy delay in posting this chapter. While I was at my writing conference, my boyfriend's mother was admitted to a hospital two hours from home for complications with her Leukemia. For the past week, we have been practically living at the hospital, and I haven't had any time to work on my writing. Unfortunately, the prognosis isn't good, and I have no idea what lies ahead for us. Because of that, future updates to this story and "The Things We Do for Love" will be sporadic at best, and I probably won't have a chance to reply to reviews for the foreseeable future. I will complete both stories eventually. It's just going to take a lot longer than I thought to get there.

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Chapter Seventeen

That night at dinner, Tyrion sat quietly at his end of the table, observing everything that went on around him. He wasn't in a jovial mood, not after Jaime had lectured him on the bridge that morning. Of course, he spoke when spoken to, as not to seem too unsociable, but for the most part, he just ate his food, drank his wine, and sat there feeling sorry for himself.

The meal was just as lively as it had been the night before, Sansa and Brienne making up for Tyrion's lack of involvement. A few times, Sansa actually laughed at Jaime's jokes, and Tyrion couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Watching them all together – Sansa, Arya, Jaime, Brienne . . . Eddard – Tyrion was struck by what a happy little family they made. It instantly reminded him of the fact that, while he had been out aimlessly roaming the world, trying to run from his problems, they had all been here at Winterfell together, braving the winter and fighting White Walkers. It had forged a connection between them that Tyrion didn't think he would ever be a part of, and in that moment, he was certain that they would all be better off without him.

Halfway through the meal, Eddard began regaling everyone with a story about the last time he and Arya had gone down to explore the crypts, and Jaime took the opportunity to lean in close to Tyrion for a private word. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Still being obstinate and feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Something like that."

Tyrion took a sip of wine, and Jaime sat back. There was nothing his brother could do or say to lure him out of himself. He was in no mood for revelry. All he wanted was to finish his dinner and retire to his chamber without incident.

Jaime turned back toward the table and said something that made Sansa laugh. The sound was as bright and cheerful as a birdsong, and Tyrion wished he had been the one to bring her such joy. But then, there was far too much tension between them for that.

Tyrion lowered his head toward his plate and concentrated on his meal, determined to survive the evening as best he could. Ordinarily, he couldn't get through a single meal without Eddard talking to him incessantly, but since Jaime's arrival, Eddard's attention had been directed elsewhere, and Tyrion was surprised to find just how much he missed it.

Just as it had the night before, the meal lasted a bit longer than usual, and when everyone had emptied their plates, Sansa suggested that they all retire to her sitting room so that they could continue enjoying each other's company for a while longer. Tyrion tried to protest, but neither Jaime nor Eddard would allow him to decline the invitation. And so, before Tyrion quite knew what was happening, he found himself in Sansa's sitting room, seated in a large chair by the hearth, while everyone else gathered around the matching sofas in the center of the room. There was a book on the table beside the chair, and he picked it up, pretending to read as he quietly observed what was going on around him.

Jaime continued to entertain everyone with his undeniable charm, his devoted wife by his side. Sansa sat across from them, her needlework in her lap, while Eddard and Arya sat on the floor playing war with Eddard's wooden soldiers, joining in the conversation whenever it suited them. And again, Tyrion was struck by how cozy and domestic it all seemed. They were the perfect picture of a happy family spending a cold winter evening together, and suddenly, Tyrion felt more like an outsider than ever.

An hour passed, then two. Finally, it grew so late that Eddard began to show signs of fatigue.

"I think it's time for bed," Sansa said, putting down her needlework, obviously intending to stand.

But Eddard was in her lap before she could rise. "Please, let me stay, Mother. I want to hear more of Uncle Jaime's stories."

Sansa looked down at Eddard, and Tyrion could see her warring with herself. She always tried her best to be a strict disciplinarian, but she often failed in that regard. Eddard was Sansa's one weakness. She hated to see the boy suffer even in little ways, and so, more often than not, she succumbed to his pleading.

"If you don't go to sleep now, you won't wake up until noon, and then you'll miss your morning training."

"Please," Eddard begged with the tone of a child who knew just how to get his own way.

Tyrion knew Sansa was going to give in even before she spoke.

"All right," she said, "but just a little while longer."

"Thank you!" Eddard wrapped his arms around his mother's neck and hugged her tightly. Then, he snuggled down into her lap, resting his head against her shoulder so that he could turn and watch his uncle Jaime. Tyrion knew it wouldn't be long until Eddard was fast asleep. He'd simply had too much excitement for one day.

While everyone else continued to talk, Tyrion continued to observe. Sansa had one arm wrapped around Eddard, her hand resting gently against the back of his head. As she chatted with Jaime and Brienne, she idly stroked Eddard's hair, running her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.

Tyrion sighed longingly, the sound so soft that it didn't carry across the room. His eyes fixed on Sansa's fingers and their gentle movement, his heart wishing for something he knew he could never have. Tyrion wondered what it must feel like to be so close to Sansa Stark. Although he had known her touch once – just once – the memory was so old and faded that he could scarcely call it a memory anymore. It was more like a dream, a fantasy, something that had happened to someone else a lifetime ago. Tyrion longed to feel Sansa's arms around him again, her fingers in his hair. It wasn't a sexual longing. It was something more, something deep and visceral and as old as time itself. Tyrion wanted to be loved, to be cared for, to be a part of something bigger than himself. He wanted Sansa to love him, but he could not – he _would_ not – ever ask her for her love.

Tyrion tore his eyes away from his wife and stared down at the flames flickering in the hearth. He wanted to be anywhere else in the world at that moment, but there were too many people between him and the door for him to make his escape. So Tyrion just sat there, listening to their stories, their jokes, their laughter, pretending not to notice how truly empty he felt.

Although the conversation around him was loud enough for Tyrion to hear every last word, it barely registered through the foggy haze that had settled over his brain. It wasn't until Jaime said, "It looks like he's asleep," that Tyrion was finally roused from his stupor. At first, he thought that Jaime was talking about him, but no, a quick glance at the center of the room and Tyrion saw that it was Eddard who had fallen fast asleep.

"I should take him to bed," Sansa said.

"No, let me." Jaime got up from the couch and crossed the floor. He reached down to take Eddard from Sansa's arms.

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"No, not at all," he replied as he gently hefted the boy upward. "I need the practice, after all." Jaime glanced at Brienne, and a soft look passed between them. The kind of look that tore at Tyrion's soul.

"I'll come with you," Brienne said, standing up and moving to his side. "You're not the only one who needs some practice putting a child to bed."

Standing there together like that, Eddard fast asleep in Jaime's arms, Brienne by his side, they looked like the perfect little family. Anyone seeing them at that moment would have had no trouble believing that Jaime was Eddard's father and that Brienne was his mother. They looked so blissfully happy together, and it made Tyrion feel just a little bit ill.

"Good night, Sansa," Jaime said. He glanced about the room. "Arya. Tyrion."

Arya hopped up from her spot on the floor. "I think I'll go too. I don't have the luxury of sleeping till noon like Eddard. Good night, Sansa." Arya didn't even bother to acknowledge Tyrion as she followed Jaime and Brienne out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

An uneasy quiet fell over the sitting room. Tyrion expected Sansa to make her own excuses and disappear just as quickly as everyone else had, but she didn't. Instead, she picked up her needlework again and went back to her sewing.

Tyrion turned back to his book, trying to make sense of the letters on the page, but the words all seemed to bleed together. He was acutely aware of Sansa sitting on the other side of the room, of the sound of her breathing and the rhythmic movement of her needle against the fabric. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind at that moment. Why hadn't she run from him when she'd more than had the chance?

Tyrion knew that if he stayed where he was, he'd never get any answers, so he climbed down from his chair and reseated himself on the couch beside his wife, leaving enough space for two people between them.

"You're very good at that, you know?" he said, trying his best to make idle conversation even though his mind was fraught with anxiety.

"I had a very good teacher," Sansa replied, not missing a stitch.

"Septa Mordane, correct?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper, and Tyrion wondered if she was picturing her Septa's head on a pike as she said it.

"She would have been very proud of you."

"Why?" Sansa asked, still not bothering to raise her head. "Because I can stitch a sampler?"

"No, because you've grown into a fine young woman, regal and dignified, just like your mother."

Sansa's fingers finally stilled. They never talked about her parents. Never. Her mother's murder had been one of the things that had driven them apart all those years ago back in King's Landing. It was a painful subject for both of them, and Tyrion usually did his best to avoid it at all costs. But Sansa did remind him of her mother, in the best possible way, and he felt she had a right to know it.

After a moment, Sansa began to move her needle again. "My mother was a much better Lady of Winterfell than I will ever be. She made a warm and loving home for her children, and even though she had a kind heart, she was never weak like me."

Tyrion was startled to hear Sansa say such a thing. She was one of the strongest people he had ever known, and he had no idea how she could be so wrong about herself. "You're not weak, Sansa Stark."

"Aren't I? Then why do I still cling to my dreams like a petulant child? Why can't I let go of the past, give up hoping for what I know I can never have? I am the Lady of Winterfell. The time for daydreaming is over, and yet, my heart rules me more than my head, and I simply can't steel myself against it."

"And why would you want to?"

"Because my heart is weak, and it makes me weak. And that is not what Winterfell needs. It's not what Eddard needs. It's not what you need."

Tyrion had the urge to move closer to her, to take her hand and offer her comfort, but he resisted. He didn't know why she was telling him any of this. Perhaps she was still self-conscious about what she had confessed to him the night before. Whatever her reasons were for confiding in him now didn't matter. He just wanted to help her in any way he could. "You need not worry about me," Tyrion said. "I don't want anything from you, and I admire you exactly as you are."

Sansa finally lifted her head and met his eyes. "Do you? Do you really? Even though you think I'm a faithless liar?"

"I don't think that."

"Yes, you do. And you're a liar if you can't admit it."

Tyrion rubbed the back of his neck in agitation, fighting to hold her gaze. He didn't want to flee, though every nerve in his body was telling him that's exactly what he should do. He didn't want to fight with Sansa again. He'd been trying to pay her a compliment, and he'd made a complete mess of it.

Tyrion dropped his hand to his lap. "I think you are a strong and capable woman," he said, ignoring the issue altogether. "I think you are a wonderful Lady of Winterfell and an absolutely amazing mother. There is so much to admire about you that, sometimes, I'm simply in awe of you, and I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to say it."

"Do you really think those things?" Sansa asked, her tone softening a bit.

"Yes, I do, every damned day. I've just never said it before, and I'm sorry for that."

Sansa was quiet for a moment, and Tyrion had no idea how she was going to reply. He was surprised when all she said was, "Thank you."

Tyrion shook his head. "Don't thank me for telling you the truth. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. You survived King's Landing, you survived the Vale, and you survived the Great War all on your own. A weak woman would have crumbled at the first sign of adversity, but you persevered. And now, here you are, running Winterfell with the same grace and wisdom as your dearly departed mother. I know she would be very proud of you. I am very proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself."

"It's not that easy," Sansa said, "not with all my failings."

"We all have failings, some of us more than others. You don't have anything to be ashamed about or sorry for. You've done what you had to do to survive, and whatever that may have been, it got you where you are now, and in the end, that's all that matters."

Sansa stared at Tyrion for a moment, and then, she nodded. Without a word, she turned back to her needlework again, and Tyrion exhaled a sigh of relief. Soon, a comfortable silence settled between them as Sansa continued her sewing and Tyrion pretended to read.

After some time, Sansa's voice finally broke the quiet. "Jaime and Brienne intend to leave for Casterly Rock in a moonturn. Do you intend to join them?"

Tyrion eyed Sansa over the edge of his book, knowing that this was a conversation he did not wish to have. He had been mulling over the possibility of leaving Winterfell ever since Jaime had told him the news that morning, but he had yet to make a decision. "I am considering it," Tyrion admitted.

"I'm surprised you're even considering it," Sansa replied, her eyes still focused on her work. "I thought you would have made your decision already."

"You mean, you thought I'd already begun making plans to leave." Tyrion closed the book so that he could give Sansa his full attention.

"Yes."

"Well, I haven't. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"When do you think you'll know for certain?"

"Are you so eager to see me leave?"

Sansa paused, and Tyrion thought she might not answer him, but finally, she said, "I just want to know how much time we have, that's all. If you're going to be leaving in a moonturn, we need to prepare."

"For what?"

"For life without you."

"Would that be so terrible? You've lived without me longer than you've ever lived with me. I've only been here a month so far. Surely, my leaving won't disrupt your life so very much."

Sansa dropped her needlework and turned to look at Tyrion. There was a hardness in her eyes that hadn't been there before, and he wondered if she was upset with him again. "Eddard adores you," she said. "You have proven yourself a wise and capable Lord of Winterfell. Yes, you have only been here a month, but the help you have given me, and my people, has been invaluable. Eddard will be devastated when you go, the smallfolk will doubtlessly be disappointed, and our bannerman will lose whatever sense of respect they have for you."

"And you, Sansa? What about you?"

Sansa was silent, and Tyrion wondered just what was going on inside her mind. Did she want to say something biting and cruel, or did she want to confess to tender feelings, despite her better judgment? "I have no desire to rule Winterfell alone, but I will not make you stay. You've done as I've asked. You allowed me to tell Jon that you are alive. You've seen Winterfell through the worst of the winter. You've done your duty. You are welcome to go if that is your wish."

But for the first time, it wasn't.

Tyrion stared at Sansa, wishing nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. He knew he had no right to touch her, but he longed to do so, just the same. She looked so beautiful, so grave. He wanted to kiss the frown from her lips and make her sigh with contentment. He had only managed to do that once in all the time they'd been married, and he wished, more than anything, that he could do it again.

"Well?" Sansa said when he remained quiet. "Is that your wish?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, it's not."

"Then, you won't be going?"

"I . . ." Tyrion wanted to tell her that he was going to stay for the rest of his life, that he would never leave her again. But he knew he was just getting caught up in the moment, and he didn't want to make a promise that he might later regret. Everything was happening so fast, and he wasn't ready to swear his life away just because he was desperate to be close to his wife again. "I don't know."

Sansa's whole body stiffened, and the look in her eyes grew darker. "Which means, you will be leaving in a moonturn, just as I thought."

"It means, I don't know what I'm doing," he bit back, his temper suddenly flaring. "It means I will make a decision when I make a decision and not before."

"If you are going to leave, there's something I want from you first."

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, gods help me, I can only imagine. What is it? Would you like me to gather the entire north in the Great Hall and declare that you have never been unfaithful to me and that Eddard is my trueborn son?"

Tyrion regretted it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Sansa's eyes turned stormy, and he didn't think he had ever seen a deadlier look in his life, not even from Arya.

Sansa was seething with anger, and it was obvious that she was trying very hard not to scream. Tyrion braced himself, waiting for her to give full rein to her fury.

But she was Sansa Stark, after all, the most even-tempered, self-controlled woman Tyrion had ever met. She took her time tamping down her anger before opening her mouth to speak. "Why would I ask you for something that you have already sworn never to give me?"

"Then what do you want?"

"I want another child."

Tyrion stared at Sansa, his heart barely beating, her words clawing at his brain without making purchase. _A child? _She wanted a child?He couldn't even comprehend the idea. It was simply too foreign to him.

"Nothing to say?" Sansa asked archly, her words as chilly as a cold, northern night.

Tyrion struggled to reply, his mouth trying to form words but failing miserably. Finally, he managed to force something past his lips. "You . . . you can't mean it."

Sansa straightened her spine, which was no small feat since she was already as rigid as a corpse. "I do. You're going to leave in a moonturn, whether you're willing to admit it or not, and before you do, I want you to give me another child."

The weight of her words crushed the air from Tyrion's lungs, and he couldn't breathe, let alone speak.

"Eddard is the sole male heir to Winterfell," Sansa said. "Should anything happen to him, gods forbid, there would be no one to take his place. Jon is King of the Seven Kingdoms. If he ever has a son, that child will sit on the Iron Throne. Bran will never set foot south of the Wall again. And Arya has sworn never to marry. Eddard is all we have, and if, for some horrible reason, he cannot take his rightful place as lord of the keep, the days of the Starks ruling Winterfell will be over and it will be my fault."

Tyrion had never expected such a proposition from his wife. Her reasoning was sound, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to take. It was true, if something happened to Eddard, either now or in the future, there would be no one to follow after him. But Tyrion wasn't sure if Sansa knew just what it was that she was asking for. To make a child, they would have to lie together again, and he couldn't imagine how they could manage that with all the animosity and distrust that still separated them. The last time he had gone to her bed, there had been a tentative trust between them, but now, they didn't even have that.

"Do you realize exactly what it is that you're asking me to do?" Tyrion questioned, wanting to make certain that Sansa had completely thought this through.

"Yes, I do," she replied, her resolve unwavering. "You and I have shared a bed before. I'm sure we can survive it again."

Had circumstances been less dire, Tyrion would have laughed. He hadn't realized that the one night he had spent in her bed had been such a hardship for her. As he recalled, in his dark and distant memory, she had seemed to take some pleasure in it, even if she had been thinking about someone else the entire time. Tyrion wanted to say just that, but he was afraid that, if he did, she might slap him. Instead, he asked, "Are you sure you can really survive it?"

"I can. And while I'm certain it will be a trial for you, it is your duty as the Lord of Winterfell. Surely, you can fulfill that duty before you abandon us again. If it helps, just think of me as one of your whores."

Tyrion's fingers tightened around the book in his hands, and he had the sudden urge to throw it across the room. He knew what Sansa thought of him, she had made that abundantly clear, but she couldn't have been more wrong. Tyrion wanted to argue with her, but he knew it was a fight he just couldn't win. "When do you want to do this?" he asked, his voice painfully tight.

"When?" Sansa seemed surprised by the question.

"Yes, when? Tonight, tomorrow, the night before I leave for Casterly Rock? When?"

Tyrion could tell by the look on Sansa's face that she was tempted to tell him to take her that very night, just to preserve her pride. But even Sansa Stark wasn't that brave. Her cheeks were flushed a flattering shade of pink, and he could see a hint of embarrassment hiding behind her stunning blue eyes. It took her a moment, but finally, she said, "I will speak with the ladies of the keep and ask their advice about the best time to conceive. I would not want to have to go to your bed more than once if I can help it. A woman can only suffer so much in one lifetime."

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance. Sansa abruptly stood, putting an end to his halfhearted effort.

"The hour grows late," she said. "I think it would be best if you left now."

Tyrion was still in shock, but the cold look in Sansa's eyes forced him to move. He pushed himself off the couch, the book still clutched in his hands as he struggled to balance himself on unsteady legs. He was numb all over, from his head to his toes, and he had no idea how the hell he was going to make it back to his room because he was barely able to move.

Tyrion looked up at Sansa. He wanted to say something, make things better somehow, but for once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

"I will tell you when you are to come to me," Sansa said. "You needn't worry. I will give you fair warning."

Tyrion nodded, his head feeling like a lead weight on his shoulders. He slowly turned around then and carefully made his way toward the door, afraid he might lose his footing at any moment. When he finally reached the door, he grabbed the handle for support and pulled it open, the effort far more difficult than it should have been.

Tyrion glanced over his shoulder at Sansa. She was standing in the middle of the room, her posture rigid, her hands clasped in front of her. There was no warmth in her eyes, only impatience. She was waiting for him to go.

"Good night, my lady," Tyrion said, the words raw in his throat.

Sansa didn't bother to reply, and he reluctantly turned away again, closing the door as he stepped out into the hallway.

When Tyrion was finally hidden from Sansa's view, he leaned back against the door and swore violently, "Fuck!"

This was not what Tyrion had wanted. It was not how he had imagined bedding his wife again – and oh, he had definitely imagined it. But not like this. The first time they had been together, it had been because Joffrey had threatened Sansa's virtue. Now, it was to produce an heir. Sansa didn't want him any more now than she had back in King's Landing. The years hadn't made anything better between them, they had just made everything worse.

"Fuck," Tyrion swore again, fighting the urge to bang his hands against the door behind him. Sansa was determined to see this through, and he knew he had no right to refuse her. He had a responsibility to her and to Winterfell, and he had no choice but to do his duty, whether he liked it or not.


	19. Chapter 18

Author's Note: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to post this chapter. Things have settled down a bit in my personal life now, and I'm slowly easing myself back into editing and posting. I want to thank everyone for their kindness and support. It has been very much appreciated.

Now, I know everyone is just dying for Sansa and Tyrion to finally start working on that baby, but it's going to be a few chapters before we get there. Please be patient. I promise it will be worth it.

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Chapter Eighteen

Sansa stared at the closed door, her hands trembling even though they were clasped tightly together. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to run to the door and pull it open just so she could slam it in Tyrion's face. She hated him. Gods, how she hated him. She wished now that he had never come back to Winterfell. If he had just stayed away, she could have gone on believing that he was the kind, warm, gentle man of her dreams and not the drunken, whoring reprobate he truly was. She hated him so much she could cry.

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to fight back the tears, but all it did was make them flow more freely. Her legs suddenly felt weak, and she sank down onto the couch behind her, crying her heart out. She had never wanted things to be this way. Never. Before Tyrion had returned, she had honestly thought that they could be happy together, but she had been a fool, a stupid fool.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, her entire body trembling. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to hide alone in her chamber and never face the outside world again. Never face Tyrion again. She felt humiliated, mortified, rejected. Even though Tyrion had not refused her request to share her bed, she knew he had only conceded under duress. He didn't want her any more now than he had back in King's Landing, and he had no qualms about showing it. She was a nuisance to him, an obligation, and he was already quite eager to move on with his life.

Without warning, the sitting room door slowly creaked open, and Sansa's eyes darted toward the sound. She swiped feverishly at her cheeks, fearing that Eddard had awoken and come in search of her. She didn't want him to see her crying. She had always been sure to put up a strong front for Eddard, to never let him see the weakness within her, and she was not about to fail him now.

But it wasn't Eddard, it was Arya, and Sansa sobbed in relief.

"Where is he?" Arya asked, not even getting far enough into the room to close the door.

"Who?" Sansa was too emotional to be thinking clearly.

"The man I'm going to kill for you."

Sansa shook her head. "No, you can't," she said feebly, her voice lacking all conviction.

"Where is he?"

"Please, just let it go. He'll be gone soon anyway."

"I'm not going to let it go. I told him the night he arrived that if he ever hurt you, I would kill him, and I meant it. He knew the risk, and now, he's going to have to pay the price." Arya turned around and headed back out the door.

Sansa bounded from the couch, her legs shaking with the effort. "No, wait!"

Arya stopped, turning around so that she could look at Sansa again. She arched a brow in question.

"Come in and close the door," Sansa said. "I need to talk to someone."

Arya turned around just far enough to pull the door closed behind her, and Sansa sighed in relief. She sank back down onto the couch as she waited for her sister to join her. It seemed like forever before Arya finally crossed the floor. When she sat down beside Sansa, her expression was no more sympathetic than it had been when she'd first entered the room.

"I hope you don't intend to tell me why I shouldn't end Lord Tyrion's life," Arya said. "I've already made up my mind, and nothing you say will change it."

"He is the Lord of Winterfell," Sansa replied. "You can't simply execute him because you want to, particularly when he's committed no crime."

"He hurt you. I don't know what he did or said to do it, but he hurt you, and that's crime enough."

"No, it isn't. He is the Lord of Winterfell, whether we like it or not, and neither one of us has a right to harm him without just cause."

"This is just cause. Look at you." Arya's eyes narrowed in concern as she examined Sansa's face. "He left you sobbing like a child."

"It's my own fault."

"No, it isn't. He's a grown man. He is, as you say, the Lord of Winterfell, and yet, he has just proven himself unworthy of that title. So it's time someone took it away from him."

Sansa wasn't sure how genuine Arya's threat was. She knew that between the time Arya had disappeared from King's Landing and the time she had reappeared at Winterfell, she had killed many men, but Sansa wasn't certain that meant she truly intended to kill Tyrion. At least, Sansa hoped that wasn't what it meant.

"Well," Sansa said, some of the calm returning to her voice, "that someone is not going to be you. I forbid it."

The warmth suddenly faded from Arya's eyes. "You forbid it?"

"Yes, I forbid it. As long as I am the Lady of Winterfell, you will not cause my husband any bodily harm. And when he leaves for Casterly Rock at the end of the month, you will let him go without a word."

Arya shook her head in disbelief. "Why are you protecting him? He doesn't give a damn about you or Eddard. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Because Tyrion will be gone in a few short weeks, and before he leaves, there's something I want from him."

"His head on a pike? His blood flowing in the Great Hall just like Littlefinger's?"

Sansa was troubled by the image Arya's words conjured up in her mind, but she pushed her unease aside. "I want another child," Sansa said. "And Tyrion has agreed to give me one before he leaves Winterfell."

Arya laughed, and every muscle in Sansa's body unconsciously tightened.

"You can't be serious," Arya replied, her tone incredulous.

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because Winterfell needs another heir. Mother and Father had five children and look how things ended up. Robb and Rickon dead, Bran north of the Wall. Tyrion and I have _one_ child. Just one. And if we don't at least try to make another, gods-only-know what's going to happen to Winterfell when we're gone."

"There's a much easier solution, of course. You do know that, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let me kill Tyrion, then you'll be free to marry whomever you want, and you can produce scores and scores of heirs with a man you can actually trust. A man who actually trusts you."

For the briefest of moments, Sansa was tempted by the idea – not the idea of allowing Arya to kill Tyrion, but the idea of marrying someone else and starting over. Tyrion had offered her that chance when he'd first arrived at Winterfell, and she had scoffed at it. Now, Sansa was sorry she hadn't considered the offer more seriously.

"You know I'm right," Arya said. "It would be quite easy to—"

"No." Sansa was adamant in her decision. "You will not harm Tyrion. You must give me your word."

"No. That is one thing I will not do," Arya answered without a moment's hesitation. "You have _forbidden_ me from doing him harm at this moment, and so I will respect your wishes. For now. But don't ask me to give you my word against an unknown future. None of us know what the future may hold, and I am not prepared to give my word now, when circumstances could change at any moment."

"Fine," Sansa grudgingly conceded. "But for now, there will be no more talk of killing Tyrion. Is that understood?"

Arya didn't answer, and Sansa thought she might need more persuading, but the next time Arya spoke, it was obvious that the bent of her thoughts had changed considerably. "You still want him, don't you?"

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She was surprised by the sudden accusation. "No, of course not."

"Yes, you do. That's why you asked him to give you a baby, isn't it? Not because Winterfell needs an heir, but because you want Tyrion Lannister in your bed. You asked me to let him live because you want to fuck him."

The blood rushed to Sansa's cheeks. She was mortified by Arya's brazenness. "Arya!" she scolded. "You may be a great warrior, but you are still a lady, and you should not use such language."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Arya said. "You want to fuck Tyrion Lannister, and you can't deny it."

Sansa was stunned silent. Arya knew her even better than she knew herself. But that didn't mean she was going to admit to wanting Tyrion, whether it was true or not.

"See?" Arya gloated. "You're utterly speechless."

"I do not want to . . ."

"Fuck."

"Yes, that," Sansa said. "I do not want to do that with Tyrion."

"Really? Then why did you ask him to give you a baby?"

"Because I do want a baby. Because Winterfell needs an heir, and because Eddard has been asking for a little brother since he first learned to talk."

"So you're doing this for Winterfell then? And for Eddard? And not at all for yourself?"

"Yes, exactly."

Arya laughed. "Horseshit."

Sansa was not fond of Arya's coarse language, but she knew if she complained about it again, Arya would just scoff at her and do as she pleased anyway.

"It's the truth," Sansa replied.

"It is not the truth. You've been waiting five years for him to come back just so he could help you get at that itch you can't scratch. You want him, and you're just too much of a coward to admit it."

Sansa hated being called a coward. It was almost as bad as being called a liar and a cheat. She was a Stark, and Starks were brave. Always. They never ran from a fight or shied away from the truth.

And yet, Sansa wasn't sure this was a truth she could bring herself to admit.

"I'm not a coward," Sansa protested.

"Then prove it. Admit what you want from Tyrion. Admit what you _feel_ for Tyrion. I dare you."

Suddenly, it felt like they were children again, Sansa trying to act all proper and reserved, and Arya needling her in an attempt to break her carefully crafted façade. Sansa didn't want to give in, but even though she was now a full-grown woman – or, more precisely, _because_ she was now a full-grown woman – she could not back down from the challenge.

"You really want to know the truth?" Sansa said, her voice trembling slightly.

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Fine." Sansa self-consciously fluffed out her skirts, smoothing them down with nervous hands. "I'll tell you the truth. The situation here at Winterfell is dire, and Tyrion and I do need to produce another heir if we are able."

Arya rolled her eyes as if she expected Sansa to evade the truth again.

"But that doesn't mean that I view the prospect with dread," Sansa continued. "It has been a long time since my husband and I have had to fulfill our marital duties, and I am more than happy to do what is required of me."

Arya's lips curved in a broad, slow smile. "You just can't say the words, can you?"

"I did. I told you how I feel. There was no falsehood in what I said."

"You want to fuck him," Arya answered. "Just say it. Say the words. It'll feel good. Trust me."

"No. I will say no such thing, and if you keep pestering me about it, you can leave right now."

"Fine," Arya huffed. "But can you at least admit that your own desires were a factor in your decision?"

"Why? Why do you care so much?" Sansa asked, trying to understand why it even mattered to Arya anymore.

"You said yourself that Tyrion is going to leave at the end of the month, yes?"

"Yes."

"Well, when he does, I want to make sure that you're prepared for it. If you're doing this because you really just want an heir, that's one thing. But if you're doing this because you're still secretly in love with him and you're hoping that inviting him to your bed is going to make him stay, that's something else entirely."

"I've never been in love with Tyrion," Sansa replied stalwartly. "Never."

"Yes, you have. I know you have. You've ignored every other man who's crossed your path since you returned to Winterfell."

Sansa pulled back her shoulders and sat up a little straighter. "I'm a married woman. I'm supposed to ignore other men."

Arya shook her head. "No, not you, Sansa. You were always a flirt. You always loved the attention. But then, you married Tyrion and you had his child, and suddenly, everything changed."

"That wasn't the only reason things changed."

"I know," Arya said softly, acknowledging countless tragedies with those two simple words. "But the point is, you've always romanticized Tyrion's return, hoping for it even when you tried to pretend that you didn't care. You've loved him for a long time – or at least, you've loved the idea of him – and I don't want to see you get hurt when you give him what you think he wants and he leaves you anyway."

"It's not my intention to seduce him into staying."

"Then what is your intention?"

Sansa didn't want to examine her own motives too closely, but Arya was giving her no choice. It was getting late, it had been a long day, and Sansa had just spent a quarter of an hour crying her eyes out. Had circumstances been the slightest bit different, she might have refused to answer, but she was too exhausted to equivocate any longer. Arya wanted to know the truth, so Sansa was going to give her the truth.

"I didn't ask Tyrion to come to my bed because I'm trying to convince him to stay," she said. "I did it because, you're right, I do want him. And because I would like to make a few good memories with him before he's gone forever, so I have something to hold on to for the long, lonely nights ahead."

"Oh, Sansa." Arya leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her sister and hugging her tightly.

Sansa instantly began to sob. She buried her head against Arya's shoulder and cried out all her pain. "I'm so stupid," she mumbled between sniffles. "I know I am. I shouldn't want him, not after everything that's happened, not knowing what he thinks of me. But I can't help myself. I've wanted him for so long. I . . . I've loved him for so long. I'm such a fool."

Arya reached up and gently stroked Sansa's hair. "It's all right. It's all going to be all right. It isn't you, Sansa. It's Tyrion. This is all his fault, not yours. All you ever did was love him. All you've ever been was a good, faithful wife, and if he can't see that, then he doesn't deserve you."

Sansa sniffled plaintively and pulled back so that she could look at Arya. "I know you're right, but it doesn't make it hurt any less."

"Are you sure you don't want me to kill him for you? I could make it look like an accident if that's what you're worried about."

Sansa laughed softly. "No, that's all right. He'll be gone soon enough. There's no need for that."

Arya rested her head against Sansa's shoulder, and Sansa leaned back against the couch, taking Arya with her. They sat there holding each other for a long time. It had been ages since they'd shown each other any kind of real affection, and there was something deeply cathartic about the experience. Sansa knew she wasn't the only one who was suffering. Arya was no happier with her lot in life than Sansa was. They'd both traveled a long, painful road to get where they were now, and it was not often that they took the time to comfort each other. Sansa suddenly wished that she had confided in Arya sooner. It would have made all their struggles much easier to bear.

After a time, Arya broke the silence between them. "Do you really think he's going to leave?" she asked, her voice soft and almost childlike.

Sansa stared out into the empty room, wishing she saw a different future before her than the one she knew awaited her. "I do."

"But you want him to stay."

"Yes, but not for my sake, for Eddard's."

"Sansa," Arya scolded. She tried to pull away so that she could look up at her sister, but Sansa held her tight.

"That isn't a lie. If things were better between us, I would want Tyrion to stay for my sake. But as things stand now, it's probably for the best if he just goes. It will be less painful in the long run. It's hard to see him every day, knowing what he truly thinks of me."

"I'm sorry he's such an ass."

A bitter laugh escaped Sansa's throat. "So am I."

Sansa tightened her hold on Arya and held on for dear life. Tyrion wasn't going to change. Nothing she said or did was ever going to convince him that she was a loving, faithful, devoted wife. He had already made up his mind about her, and he would not be swayed.

Sansa placed a gentle kiss against Arya's head and closed her eyes. She held Arya for the longest time, doing her best to will the dark thoughts from her mind, doing her best to will the pain away.


	20. Chapter 19

Author's Note: I'm sorry that this update took so long. When I wrote the first draft of this fic, I actually wrote two versions of this chapter, one in which Tyrion talks to Jaime and one in which he talks to Arya. It took me a while to figure out which version to use and that contributed to the delay. Once I finally finish posting this story, I may post the alternate version of this chapter on tumblr, in case anyone wants to read it. If I do, I'll make a note of it at the end of this fic.

Also, I had a reviewer ask when they could expect updates on this story, and unfortunately, I couldn't reply because this site will not allow authors to reply to guest reviews. I make it a priority to reply to every review I receive, so if you would like a response back, please make sure that you are logged in. At this point, updates to this story will be sporadic, depending on how the revisions go, so I can't really say how often I will update, but hopefully, it will be more frequently than it has been these last couple of months.

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Chapter Nineteen

The next few days at Winterfell were particularly tense, the uneasiness between Tyrion and Sansa felt by all around them. Of course, life continued on just as it always had – they took meals together, met with petitioners, planned for the future of the north – but an unspoken tension ran through all of it, and Tyrion wanted nothing more than to escape from Winterfell as soon as possible.

Tyrion took every opportunity to avoid his wife, spending as much time with Jaime and Eddard as he could. Arya had suddenly taken to giving Tyrion even darker looks, and he had the distinct feeling that she knew every last thing that had ever passed between him and her sister. He was secretly waiting for her to come up behind him in a corridor, slit his throat, and disappear like the faceless, nameless assassin that she was. He knew that Arya was hungry for his blood, and he was doing everything in his power to avoid giving her a reason to take it.

Every day, Tyrion worried that Sansa would come to him and tell him that she was ready for him to share her bed. He knew he dreaded it more than was reasonable, but he didn't want to be alone with Sansa again, didn't want to be intimate with her again. She hated him, and he despised the idea of spending a cold, loveless night in her bed. Would she just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, while he pushed himself inside her and fought to spill his seed? Or would she close her eyes and imagine that he was Eddard's real father, that she was making love to the man of her dreams?

Either way, Tyrion had no desire to do what Sansa had asked of him, but he knew there was no way out. He was her husband, and Winterfell was woefully lacking in heirs. Before he abandoned her for the last time, he had to at least try to give her a child. If not for her sake, then for Eddard's.

Tyrion sat at the desk in his study, staring blindly out into the room, thinking about the little boy who still believed that he was his father. Eddard wanted a brother more than he wanted his own pet dragon, and Tyrion was the only man in the world in a position to give him one. There was very little that Tyrion could do for Eddard, but if the gods were feeling generous, perhaps they'd allow him to do the boy this one kindness before he left Winterfell forever. Tyrion wanted Eddard to be happy, and a baby brother would go a long way toward making him happy.

A soft rap at the door suddenly roused Tyrion from his reverie. It was late afternoon. He had missed luncheon in favor of work, and he hadn't the slightest idea who had come to see him.

Tyrion pulled himself up farther in his chair, straightened his doublet, and said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Sansa quietly stepped into the room.

Tyrion's heart sank. He didn't want to be alone with Sansa. Not again. Not after what had happened the last time.

"Am I disturbing you, my lord?"

"No, of course not," he lied. "I was just catching up on some correspondence, but it can wait."

Sansa crossed the floor and stopped on the opposite side of the desk.

"Would you like to sit?" Tyrion offered, motioning toward the chair beside her.

"No, thank you. I won't be staying long. I just came to inform you that I would like you to come to my chamber after dinner tonight, if you are so inclined."

Tyrion was not so inclined, not in the least, but it really didn't matter. Sansa was just being polite. There was no way she would accept a refusal.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Tyrion asked, his eyes watching her intently, searching for the slightest hint of uncertainty. "If you've changed your mind, I won't hold it against you."

"No, my lord. This is what must be done for the good of Winterfell. Will you do your duty tonight, as you promised?"

Tyrion stared at Sansa for a long time. Her face was a mask, her eyes cold and empty. He wanted to reach out to her, to take her hand and make her feel something, anything, but he knew it would do no good. She had already made up her mind, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Tyrion sighed heavily, regretting his next words before he even said them. "Yes, I will do my duty, if that is your wish."

Sansa nodded. "Good. Then I will see you tonight." She didn't wait for Tyrion to answer. She just turned around and left the room as quietly as she'd entered it.

Tyrion stared after Sansa, his stomach in knots, his heart aching. He remembered the girl she had once been – the sweet, trusting girl who had come to him one desperate night when she'd feared his vile nephew more than she'd feared sharing his bed. Although she had been scared to come to him then, she had trusted him enough to ask for his protection. Sometimes, Tyrion fooled himself into believing that his memories of that night were more than just fanciful delusions. Sometimes, he could almost remember the pleasure she had felt at his touch, her soft sighs and gentle caresses. But this girl, the girl who had just left his study, was a wholly different creature. She was hurt and angry and cold, and she only wanted him to share her bed so that they could fulfill a duty that neither one of them had wanted in the first place. This time, Sansa would not yield to his touch. She would not offer him any softness or warmth. She would welcome him to her bed with all the enthusiasm of a condemned woman headed to the executioner's block.

Tyrion turned his attention back to his work but quickly found that he couldn't concentrate on anything but the idea of bedding his wife. Although his mind was plagued by anxiety, his body had no such qualms. His cock ached with need despite his personal misgivings, and he knew, if he continued to ruminate on the matter, the situation would only get worse. It had been five years since Tyrion had touched a woman, and even though he knew that Sansa hated him, even though he knew she didn't want him, he craved her touch just the same.

Overcome with frustration, Tyrion threw his quill onto the desk and shoved his papers aside. He shoved so hard, in fact, that a few scrolls tumbled off the edge of the desk and landed on the floor, but he made no moved to retrieve them.

"Fuck," Tyrion swore as he collapsed back against his chair and stared out into the nothingness before him. He wished now that he had left Winterfell when he'd first had the chance. He shouldn't have let Arya intimidate him into staying. He should have just followed his instincts and left the very night he'd arrived.

Tyrion closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing his body under control. When the pain finally eased from his treacherous cock, he opened his eyes again and exhaled a long, shuddering sigh.

Tyrion knew he wasn't going to get any more work done that afternoon, so he pushed himself off the chair and left the room, determined to find somewhere to clear his head. He decided to avoid his usual haunts – the library, the Great Hall, his bedchamber – hoping to avoid anyone who might feel compelled to seek him out. He didn't want to see Eddard or Jaime or Arya. He just wanted to be alone, to find a place to while away the hours before he was forced to do the one thing in the world that he was most terrified of doing, bedding his wife.

It wasn't long before Tyrion found himself in the glass gardens. He was certain it was the warmest spot in all of Winterfell. The glass walls captured both the sun's rays and the heat from the hot springs below, creating a cozy haven of warmth untouched by the cold outside. If was so deliciously warm that, if Tyrion closed his eyes, he could almost believe that he was in King's Landing at the height of spring.

Tyrion had been told that nearly all the glass surrounding the gardens had been destroyed during the war. But once the war had ended, it had been a priority to have the glass replaced. Food stores were dangerously low, and the Winterfell gardens had been converted into something akin to a tiny, working farm. Before the war, there had been decorative flowers growing throughout the gardens. But now, the only flowers that bloomed would soon sprout life-sustaining edibles like melons and cucumbers and gourds. Still, the verdant greens around him were beautiful, and Tyrion was sorry he hadn't visited the gardens sooner. The heat warmed his bones, and the lush greenery made him feel just a little less depressed by the cold.

For some time, Tyrion idly walked the narrow paths that ran up and down the length of the glass enclosure, enjoying the momentary reprieve from his sad reality. Outside, a light snow had begun to fall, making the godswood sparkle as if fairies danced among the trees. Tyrion saw a hint of color in the white tableau beyond the windows, and he stopped, moving closer to the glass panes so that he could get a better look.

Tyrion's heart skipped a beat. Jaime and Brienne were walking through the woods, arm in arm, talking, laughing. There was an intimacy between them that Tyrion had never seen before. They didn't know he was watching them, and so they were perfectly at ease with each other. They looked so happy together, so serene and content. Tyrion's heart ached with longing as he watched them, his soul yearning for something beyond his reach.

Tyrion was happy for his brother. He truly was. After everything Jaime had suffered, after everything Cersei had put him through, Tyrion was glad to see that Jaime had finally found happiness. But Tyrion's jealousy rose like bile in his throat, and he silently prayed for Jaime and Brienne to turn and walk away. He couldn't bear to see them together like this. The way Brienne clung to Jaime's arm, the way she laughed at his jokes and gazed into his eyes, all made Tyrion long for something he knew he could never have.

Jaime led Brienne closer to the gardens, and Tyrion held his breath. He didn't want them to know that he'd been watching them. He wanted to make his escape, but he never got the chance. Before Tyrion could retreat, Jaime turned away from Brienne just long enough to glance in his brother's direction. Jaime instantly spotted Tyrion, their eyes locking in mutual frustration and disappointment.

Jaime turned back toward Brienne, leaning in closer. He whispered something in her ear, and her already rosy cheeks flushed a shade darker. Tyrion could only imagine what Jaime had said to her. No doubt it was a promise of wonderful things to come.

Brienne let go of Jaime's arm and turned to face him. He reached out and cupped her cheek with his gloved hand, drawing her close and kissing her softly.

Tyrion closed his eyes, an unexpected sob escaping his throat. He could feel tears threatening to fall, and he struggled to hold them back. He was spying on his brother and his lady wife, and he felt horribly guilty for it. There was something between Jaime and Brienne that went far beyond the physical, and it made Tyrion feel so small and wretched. He wanted what they had so badly, he would have given his life for it.

It took Tyrion longer than he would have liked to get his emotions under control. When he finally opened his eyes again, Brienne was gone and Jaime was making his way toward the glass gardens. Tyrion stepped away from the wall of windows in front of him, pacing nervously along the narrow path that led to the door. Suddenly, a rush of cold air whipped all around him, and when he turned, he found Jaime closing the door.

Jaime shook the snow from his hair, the glistening flakes settling on his shoulders for only a moment before the heat inside the glass enclosure melted them into nothingness. He looked pointedly at Tyrion. "I know you have a reputation for the perverse, but I had no idea that you got such pleasure from spying on other people."

Tyrion shuffled nervously on his feet. "Sorry about that. It wasn't my intention to spy."

Jaime cocked one fine brow in question. "Wasn't it?"

"No," Tyrion replied. "I came out here to be alone. I didn't expect . . . well, to intrude upon you and your lady wife."

Jaime gave Tyrion a sidelong glance and began ambling in his direction. He casually examined the plants as he passed them by, feigning interest. "Somehow, I doubt that. This isn't the first time I've felt you watching us. It's sad, really. If you're so desperate to see other people showing each other affection, perhaps you should take a trip into the winter town and visit the brothel. I'm sure there are plenty of whores there who would be more than happy to accommodate you."

Tyrion laughed, the sound undeniably bitter. "Now, you sound like my wife."

Jaime stopped in front of a bed of cabbages, absently toying with the leaves as he turned to look at Tyrion. "Has she made the same suggestion?"

"Not exactly, but she does have some ridiculous notion about me wanting a whore in my bed. She seems to think me completely incapable of controlling my baser urges."

"Well, aren't you?"

"No, of course not," Tyrion said in genuine horror. "I can control myself. I've controlled myself longer than you can imagine. Trust me, I am more than capable of keeping my cock out of places it doesn't belong."

Jaime laughed. It was a warm, genuine sound, and Tyrion knew his brother found his assertion quite amusing. "Yes, I'm sure you are."

Tyrion looked away from Jaime, unable to stand the knowing look in his eyes a moment longer. He swatted at the turnip leaves peeking out from the plot of soil in front of him. He had specifically come to the gardens to avoid talking to anyone, and yet, there he was, trapped by Jaime, with no clear path to the door.

"I'm sorry about spying on you and Brienne," Tyrion said, his tone suddenly serious. "I hadn't meant to disturb your peace."

"It's fine," Jaime replied. "We were going to spend some time alone together here in the gardens, but now, she's waiting for me in the Guest House instead. She probably already has her silks off and is lying in our bed."

A cold flush washed over Tyrion at the thought. It wasn't the idea of Brienne of Tarth naked in Jaime's bed that made him uncomfortable, it was the way Jaime had said the words and the way they had made Tyrion feel. Once Jaime left the glass gardens, he would retire to the Guest House to make love to his wife, and she would be a more than willing participant in the act because she loved him, more than she loved being a knight, more than she cared for duty and honor. She was so unlike Sansa, and Tyrion was so unlike Jaime.

"You're a very lucky man," Tyrion said, his tone flat.

"I'm not the only one."

Tyrion snickered. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

"No, I don't." Tyrion finally looked up at Jaime again.

"You have everything a man could ever want. A beautiful wife, a loving son—"

"Don't." Tyrion held up a hand to stop him. "Just don't. I don't want to have this conversation again."

"Fine. We don't have to talk about Eddard, but we do need to talk about Sansa."

"No, we don't. We don't need to talk about anything."

"What do you intend to do, Tyrion? You can't live like this forever."

"No, I can't." Tyrion had spent a great deal of time thinking over the past few days, and he had come to the conclusion that it would be best for all concerned if he finally left Winterfell for good. It had been a difficult decision, but ultimately, he knew he could not spend the rest of his life living with Sansa, not with the way things were between them. "When you and Brienne leave for Casterly Rock, I intend to go with you."

Jaime's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Why? You're the Lord of Winterfell. Why the hell would you want to give that up?"

"I don't care about the title. I don't care about the castle either." Tyrion laughed bitterly. "Ironic, isn't it? Father forced me to marry Sansa to secure Winterfell for the Lannisters, and now that I've done it, it doesn't even matter anymore. I can't stay here. All she and I ever do is argue. I don't want to live like that. I can't live like that. I will leave as soon as you and Brienne are ready to go."

Jaime shook his head in silent disapproval. Tyrion knew that his brother didn't agree with his decision, but he also knew that Jaime couldn't force him to stay at Winterfell. Although Jaime could most certainly bar him from returning to Casterly Rock, Tyrion knew he wouldn't. Jaime cared too much for him to ever be that cruel.

"I suppose," Jaime replied, "when you say _leave_, you mean, _never to return_."

"Yes, that sounds about right." Tyrion turned his attention back to the turnips and swatted at them again. He felt like taking his anger out on something, and Jaime was too dangerous a target.

"Have you told Sansa this?" Jaime asked, unwilling to let the matter rest.

"Not in so many words, no. But she already assumes I'm leaving anyway. She told me so herself. She will not be the least bit surprised when I leave at the end of the month, I can assure you of that."

"You know," Jaime said thoughtfully, "it amazes me just how easily you've been able to fuck this whole thing up. Really, you've practically turned it into an art."

Tyrion glanced up at his brother with a wry smile. "Oh, I'm an expert at that. Give me something beautiful, and I'll be sure to destroy it in due haste. It truly is a gift."

Jaime shook his head again. "So, what do you plan to do for the next few weeks? Avoid Sansa?"

"If only I could. But no, she's made that impossible."

"How?"

Tyrion screwed up his face in distaste, not at all keen to confess what Sansa had asked him to do. But he knew he couldn't get out of it now. He shouldn't have opened his big, stupid mouth in the first place. "A few nights ago, Sansa asked me to do something for her, something I have no desire to do, but as Lord of Winterfell, I have no choice."

A knowing smile slowly spread across Jaime's lips. "Let me guess, she wants you to give her another child."

"How did you know?"

Jaime's smile broadened, and Tyrion was certain he was fighting the urge to laugh.

"My wife and I don't keep secrets from each other. She tells me everything, including what is said between her and your lady wife."

"You mean Brienne knows about this?"

"I believe Brienne suggested it," Jaime answered. "But that's another matter entirely."

Tyrion was horrified to discover that his new sister-in-law was meddling in his private affairs. He'd thought Arya's interference was bad enough, but now Brienne was meddling too? Tyrion wished that the women of Winterfell would just leave him alone and stop making plans for his future without his consent. He'd never asked for any of this, and all he wanted was to be able to live in relative peace until he could finally leave Winterfell once and for all.

"I wish everyone would stop worrying about what goes on between me and my wife," Tyrion grumbled. "It isn't any of anyone else's concern, and I wish all of you would just mind your own business."

Now, Jaime did laugh. "Well, if you two were better at this whole marriage thing, we probably would. But as it stands now, unless someone else intervenes on your behalf, you're going to ruin the whole thing."

"We've already ruined it," Tyrion replied somberly. "Despite what you and Lady Brienne think, there is no way to fix what's wrong between me and Sansa. It's too late now. Actually, I think it's always been too late."

"You know, if you'd just take that leap of faith, if you'd just—"

Tyrion held his hand up again, stopping Jaime before he could finish. "Enough! I've had enough for one afternoon. Go. Go back to the Guest House. Make love to your beautiful wife and leave me alone to dread bedding mine. Please."

"Why do you dread it?" Jaime asked.

"Why shouldn't I dread it? She doesn't want me. She's only doing this because Winterfell needs an heir. It seems the only time my wife ever invites me to her bed is when she is in a desperate situation. It never has been, and never will be, because she wants me."

"I think you're wrong."

"And what do you know about it?"

"It's just a feeling. I know you can't see it, but I think Sansa cares for you a lot more than you might imagine."

Tyrion scowled. It was bad enough that Jaime wanted him to believe that Eddard was his son, but now he wanted him to believe that Sansa cared for him too? Tyrion refused to even entertain such an idea. It was simply too preposterous.

"Go tell your fairy stories somewhere else," Tyrion said. "I'm sure Eddard would love to hear them."

"You really do love to wallow in self-pity, don't you? I think it's gotten worse since you left Westeros."

"Probably."

"All right, I'll go," Jaime conceded. "But one thing before I do. Since you have to do your duty whether you like it or not, why not try to enjoy it? A beautiful woman has demanded that you go to her bed, and you're acting as if it's a death sentence."

"It might as well be a death sentence."

Jaime shook his head. "Fine. You keep believing that if you want to, but it's just going to make things worse for the both of you. But then, that seems to be all you've done since you returned to Winterfell, make things worse for Sansa and for yourself."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes on his brother. "Is this supposed to be helpful somehow?"

"I'll see you at dinner tonight," Jaime said, ignoring the question. He turned around and walked to the door, a fresh gust of cold air swirling inside the glass enclosure as soon as he opened it. He paused a moment to look at Tyrion over his shoulder. "I know you're enjoying feeling sorry for yourself right now, but just remember, Sansa didn't ask for this any more than you did. Maybe you should stop thinking of her as the enemy and start thinking of her as your wife." Jaime shrugged. "It's just a thought." Then, he turned around and stepped out into the snow, closing the door behind him.

Tyrion just stood there, staring out the window, watching his brother retreat into the distance. Even though the door was now closed, Tyrion still felt cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ward off a phantom chill. He hadn't asked Jaime for advice. He didn't want Jaime's advice. Tyrion knew Sansa wasn't the enemy. He knew that none of this was her fault. But that didn't change the fact that their marriage was doomed. He couldn't trust her, and she couldn't trust him. There was no foundation for them to build upon, no tentative truce, no common ground. Nothing. He would do his duty because he had to, but that was all. As soon as he was free to leave for Casterly Rock, he would. And he would never look back.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Sansa spent the rest of the day trying to distract herself, trying not to think about what was going to happen when Tyrion entered her bedchamber later that night. She wanted him, she couldn't deny that, but it didn't make her anxiety any easier to bear. She knew that Tyrion didn't want her, knew he had only agreed to bed her because it was his duty to do so. Sansa wasn't expecting a romantic evening in the arms of the man she loved. She was certain there would be at least one argument before the deed was done, if it was done at all. Knowing Tyrion, he would probably start a fight the moment he entered the room, and their night together would be over before it had even begun.

About an hour before sundown, the fret and worry became too much for Sansa, and she escaped to the quiet of the godswood in search of solitude. A light snow had begun to fall, and Sansa settled herself onto one of the rocks beneath the heart tree to admire it. Back in King's Landing, after her mother and Robb had been murdered, she had often retreated to the godswood, not because she had wanted to pray – prayer had failed her in those days – but because she had wanted to be alone. And that was exactly what she wanted now, a quiet moment to herself, alone with her thoughts, but the gods had other plans.

The peaceful silence was suddenly broken by the distant sound of boots crunching freshly fallen snow. Sansa looked up, surprised to see Jaime ambling through the woods, idly swinging his sword through the low hanging leaves, causing showers of snow to fall on his head and shoulders. He was headed toward the keep, and Sansa held her breath, hoping he wouldn't notice her. But just as quickly as the thought flitted through her mind, Jaime looked in her direction and their eyes met across the snowy expanse.

He headed straight for her, not saying a single word until he stood beneath the heart tree himself. "I hope I'm not disturbing your prayers, my lady," he said as he gazed up at the leaves, still bloodred even in the heart of winter.

"I wasn't praying. The gods don't listen to my prayers anymore."

Jaime looked down at her, concern marring his handsome face. "I never expected to hear such words from you. You're a Stark. Aren't Starks the most faithful of all the gods' servants?"

"Haven't you heard? I am the most faithless of wives, so why shouldn't I be the most faithless of the gods' servants?"

Jaime sheathed his sword and sat down on the rock next to Sansa. She moved over just enough to allow a comfortable distance between them.

"My brother is an ass," Jaime said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Better than anyone, I can assure you."

"Then why do you let his opinions bother you? You know you've been faithful. You know who Eddard's father is. If Tyrion refuses to believe the truth, then that's his failing, not yours."

Sansa looked away, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. It was one thing to discuss the intimate details of her marriage with someone like Brienne. It was another thing entirely to discuss them with Jaime. But Jaime had insights into Tyrion's character that Brienne didn't, and Sansa hoped he could enlighten her, just a bit, about his brother's motivations.

"Why does he refuse to believe the truth?" Sansa asked. "He's a very wise man – at least, people say he is – so why can't he see what's clearly in front of him?"

"Don't you know why?" Jaime replied.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Because he's afraid of the truth."

Sansa turned and looked at Jaime again. He was staring back at her with a knowing smile, and Sansa was suddenly struck by how truly handsome he was. For a moment, she found herself envying Brienne. Jaime was everything Sansa had ever dreamed of – handsome, charming, kind, gentle – and yet, despite all his many flaws, her heart still belonged to Tyrion.

"What do you mean, he's afraid of the truth?" Sansa asked. "Tyrion isn't afraid of anything."

"Of course, he is. He's afraid of being happy. He's afraid of being made to look like a fool."

"That's ridiculous. Who in the world is afraid of being happy?"

"Tyrion," Jaime said softly, his words reflecting the genuine affection he felt for his brother. "He's had too much taken away from him in his life to ever truly trust the good that comes his way. He's always waiting for the ax to fall, always waiting for things to come to ruin. And he fears you most of all."

"Me? Why does he fear me?" Sansa could scarcely believe it.

"Why, indeed?" Jaime said with a laugh. "Don't you know what my brother wants from you?"

"To let him leave Winterfell? To let him abandon his duties and his family so he can live the life he's always dreamed of?"

"If you believe that, you're either in denial or you're a bigger fool than he is. And I don't think you're a fool, Sansa. Not in the least."

"I'm not in denial about anything."

"She said, denying the accusation," Jaime countered with a knowing grin.

Jaime was starting to try Sansa's patience, but she kept her temper in check. She liked Jaime, and she had no desire to alienate him. He was the exact opposite of his brother, and she valued his opinion and his company more than she had any right to.

"Fine," Sansa conceded, "but what am I in denial about?"

"Tyrion's wants. Specifically, what he wants from you. You see, Tyrion may seem quite complicated, but he's really a very simple creature with very simple needs."

"Yes, drinking and whoring. I'm well aware."

"Well, I'll give you the drinking, but I think he's forgone the whoring for quite some time now."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Either way, that's not what Tyrion really wants. He may be a drunk, he may be a pervert, he may even be a murderer – in fact, I know he's a murderer – but deep down, he wants what we all want. To be loved. To have a home and a family all his own. To be accepted and wanted for who he really is. He wants the same life we all want. The same life you want."

"Then what is he afraid of?"

"He's afraid to get his hopes up," Jaime answered. "He's afraid he'll start believing because he wants it so badly, and then, and only then, will he find out it's all a lie. He's too afraid to let himself be happy because he's too afraid to lose what he loves again. He's lost so much over the years, from the day he was born until the day he fled Westeros. He's terrified of losing anything more."

"And yet, he's more than willing to walk away from me and Eddard."

"Because he sees it as walking away from temptation, from the thing he wants most in this world. Think about it, Sansa. When have the gods ever been kind to him? He can't believe that they would suddenly start being kind to him now. Not after everything he's been through. Not after everything he's done."

Sansa stared at Jaime, trying to grasp everything he had said in Tyrion's defense. It was difficult for her to believe that Tyrion wanted to stay, but Jaime seemed to believe in his brother so earnestly that Sansa was tempted to start believing in him too.

"Do you really think that Tyrion secretly wants to stay?" Sansa asked.

"I think— No, I know," Jaime corrected, "that not only does Tyrion secretly want to stay, but that he secretly wants to believe that Eddard is his son and that he secretly loves you more than he can ever admit."

_Love?_

Sansa could barely comprehend the word. She stared at Jaime for a long moment, struggling to form some kind of reply. "But . . . Tyrion doesn't love me. That's absurd."

"Is it?" Jaime asked, cocking a brow in question. "Why is it absurd? You're a beautiful woman. You've shown him more kindness than he rightfully deserves. Why shouldn't he be in love with you?"

"But he never—" But Sansa couldn't finish the thought. Tyrion had never given her the slightest indication that he felt anything more for her than a sense of obligation. She could not believe Jaime's words, no matter how much she wanted to. "I think," Sansa said, "I think that being in love yourself has made you see love where it doesn't exist. You're so in love with Brienne that you want the rest of the world to be in love too. But it doesn't work that way. Just because I'm a pretty girl, just because I've been kind to Tyrion, doesn't mean that he loves me. He's had many women before me, and he will have many more after. I am just one among dozens, hundreds maybe. I may bear his name, but I mean no more to him than any of the countless women who have come before me. I wish you were right. I wish everything you've just said were true. But I know my husband, and I know how he feels about me."

Jaime shook his head. "I don't think you do. And I don't think Tyrion knows how you feel about him either."

A flood of warmth rushed to Sansa's cheeks at the implication. "I . . . I don't know what you mean."

Jaime looked at her as if he found her obstinacy just a little bit insufferable. "Come, Sansa. Do you really think you're fooling anyone? It's obvious how you feel about Tyrion. Just as it's obvious how he feels about you."

"If you mean that it's obvious that we despise and mistrust each other, yes, you're absolutely right."

Jaime laughed. "No one believes that but you and Tyrion. Perhaps tonight, when he visits your bedchamber, you'll both finally realize what is so painfully obvious to the rest of us."

Sansa's face flamed red to the roots of her hair. "How . . . how do you know about that?" she asked, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He shrugged. "I have my ways."

"Brienne."

Jaime smiled broadly. "We don't keep secrets from each other, my wife and I. I know her secrets, she knows mine. Why do you think we have such a happy marriage?"

"Does she know all your secrets?" Sansa asked, wondering if the rumors about Jaime and Cersei were true, wondering if Brienne had known the truth all along.

"All my secrets," Jaime confessed in a conspiratorial tone. "Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones."

"And she loves you anyway?"

"She does. Though I admit, I hardly deserve it. But," he said with a sigh as he finally pushed himself up from the stone and stood to his full height, "unlike my brother, I have no qualms about accepting gifts that I don't deserve." Jamie looked down at Sansa. "Don't give up on Tyrion just yet. I know he's an idiot. I know he's too much of a coward for his own good. But he needs you. And he needs Eddard. Don't let him walk away when there's still a chance that you can find some happiness together."

"I think you give me far too much credit," Sansa replied.

"Oh, no. You're Sansa Stark," Jaime said with a shake of his head. "You can do anything you set your mind to. You're a strong woman, capable and beautiful, and my brother absolutely does not deserve you. But I think, if you let him, he could make you truly happy. And you do deserve that. Don't throw away your one chance at happiness just because Tyrion's too afraid to see what's right in front of him." Jaime bowed his head in deference to her. "And now that I have said my piece, I shall bid you good day, Lady Lannister."

"My lord."

Jaime offered her one last charming smile before turning around and heading toward the keep. It was still flurrying, and as he left the shelter of the heart tree, the snowflakes settled on his hair and shoulders, making him sparkle in the dying afternoon sunlight.

Sansa turned away the moment Jaime disappeared from view. She wanted to believe everything that he had said. She wanted to believe that Tyrion loved her just as much as she loved him. She wanted to believe that the only thing holding Tyrion back was his own fear. But she didn't know how to take that leap of faith. Tyrion had hurt her so badly that she didn't know how to trust him anymore or how to fix what was broken between them.

Sansa was still nervous about spending the night with Tyrion, even though she had waited five long years to make love to him again. Or perhaps, she was nervous _because_ she had waited five long years to make love to him again. Sansa knew that no matter how much love and affection she showed Tyrion in the bedchamber, she would never change his heart. No matter how glorious their night together was – and she still hoped and prayed that it would be glorious – come morning, she was certain that things would be no different between them.

Sansa wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. She sighed heavily, the sting of tears suddenly pricking her eyes. She would not cry. She would not allow herself to wallow in self-pity. She would take what she could from Tyrion tonight, while she still could. He'd be gone soon enough, and then, she'd have an entire lifetime to feel sorry for herself. No, for one night, she would take what she wanted from him, and she wouldn't apologize for it, even though it would change nothing. She needed to feel Tyrion's warmth again. She needed to be close to him, just one last time, before he walked away forever.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-one

Evening came sooner than Tyrion would have liked. Once dinner was over, he tried to linger at the table for as long as possible, but Sansa had other ideas. As soon as the plates were cleared away, she suggested that they all retire early for the evening, and suddenly, everyone was headed their separate ways. There would be no boisterous after-dinner conversation, no idle chatter in Sansa's sitting room. Jaime and Brienne retired to the Guest House, and Arya took Eddard by the hand and promised to tell him the most thrilling adventure story he'd ever heard. It was obvious that she knew what Tyrion and Sansa intended to do that night and had agreed to keep Eddard out of the way.

Even after everyone else had gone, Tyrion remained seated at the table, searching desperately for another drop of wine, but Sansa stopped him before he could reach for the flagon.

"I think you've had enough for one night," she said, staring at him from just inside the open doorway.

"I don't think I've had quite enough."

Sansa approached the table and moved the flagon beyond his reach, and Tyrion slumped back against his chair and sighed.

"Go," she said. "I will see you in my chamber shortly."

Tyrion couldn't even look at Sansa. He didn't want to see the resentment in her eyes. So, without another word, he pushed himself off the chair and left the room, heading to his chamber to prepare for bed.

When Tyrion reached his room, he made quick work of his clothes, changing into a nightshift and robe, his fingers trembling with the effort. Over the years, he had imagined making love to Sansa more times than he could count. In his fantasies, she was always willing and eager to have him in her bed. But he'd never imagined anything like this. Tyrion felt very much like he was about to walk down the hall and rape his wife, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted. Of course, his cock didn't seem to know the difference. Despite the disquiet that had settled in his soul, he had no doubt that his body would cooperate when it came time to fulfill his duty.

Tyrion opened the door and stood there silently for a moment, wondering what Sansa would do if he didn't go to her room. Would she send Arya to fetch him and force him to come to her upon threat of death? Or would she come to his chamber herself and simply slip into his bed? Tyrion didn't particularly care for either scenario, and he knew he would much rather be a man than a coward. He would go to his wife and do as she'd asked because it was his duty to do so, and for no other reason.

Tyrion's footsteps sounded hollow as he walked down the deserted corridor on his way to his wife's chamber. He didn't know how much time she needed to ready herself, but he wanted this ordeal to be over with as soon as possible. When he reached her door, he stood there for a long time, his heart in his throat, as he struggled to summon up the courage to knock. It took longer than he would have liked before he finally rapped on the door.

Sansa bid him enter, and Tyrion had to force himself to move. He knew that once he stepped into the room, there would be no going back. Sansa would not let him leave until he had given her exactly what she had asked for.

Tyrion inhaled a shaky breath and pushed the door open. He stepped into the room, the blood racing through his veins.

Sansa's chamber was surprisingly warm and inviting, the candlelight casting a hazy yellow glow across every corner of the room. Tyrion looked up and saw his wife standing at the end of the bed, and his heart skipped a single beat.

Sansa's hair lay loosely about her shoulders, a fiery red halo fit for a goddess. She wore a long white nightgown accented with frills and ribbons, the kind he had always imagined her wearing in his fantasies. She was everything Tyrion had ever wanted, and he had to blink several times to make sure that what he was seeing was real.

"Close the door," Sansa commanded, her voice gentle but firm.

It took Tyrion a second to comprehend her words. When he finally did, he turned around and closed the door behind him, taking a moment to compose himself. Already, his cock was hard and his blood was on fire, and he didn't want Sansa to see the lust that was undoubtedly in his eyes.

Tyrion turned around slowly, forcing his body under control. He finally looked up at Sansa again, relatively certain that she wouldn't be able to see the evidence of his desire.

Tyrion expected Sansa to speak, but she didn't. Instead, she reached up and tugged at the ribbon that held her nightgown together. The knot gave way, and the fabric fell aside, exposing the creamy expanse of her collarbone.

The breath caught in Tyrion's throat as his eyes transfixed on her soft, delicate skin. His mouth had suddenly gone dry, and his whole body flushed cold.

Without any warning, Sansa pushed the fabric off her shoulders, dropping her gown to the floor and allowing it to pool at her feet. In an instant, she was naked before him, and Tyrion couldn't do anything but stare.

Even though they had once spent the night together, Tyrion had never seen Sansa naked before. Everything that had happened between them that night had happened beneath the covers, shrouded in darkness. But now, there were no covers, and the candlelight hid nothing from view. Not her soft curves, nor the pale beauty of her skin. She was magnificent! Like something out of a dream. And every inch of Tyrion ached just looking at her. He didn't know what he had done to deserve something so beautiful in his life, and he secretly feared that this was all just some cruel joke designed by the gods to punish him for his many sins.

Sansa still refused to speak. Instead, she walked around to the far side of the bed and stood beside it, waiting for him to follow.

Tyrion could barely feel his legs as he moved across the floor, his eyes never leaving his wife. He feared that if he looked away, even for a moment, she would disappear into the ether and he would never know such beauty again.

Sansa stared at him from across the bed, not saying a single word. She glanced down at his body, looking pointedly at his attire, and for the first time, Tyrion realized that he was still fully clothed. With shaking fingers, he untied his robe and shrugged it off his shoulders. Then, without allowing himself a moment to think, he pulled his nightshirt over his head and discarded it on the floor.

Sansa's eyes roamed Tyrion's body with unabashed boldness. Even though he was half hidden behind the mattress, she was so tall that she had a nearly unobstructed view. She took her time examining him, and Tyrion's skin flushed red with embarrassment. He fidgeted on his feet, wishing that she would stop staring just long enough for him to dash beneath the furs.

Although Tyrion was quite adept at pleasing women in the bedchamber, he had never been comfortable being naked around them. Until tonight, there had only been two other women who had ever seen him in all his wretched glory. He'd foolishly thought that they'd both loved him, and that had trumped all his insecurities. But beyond that, no matter how many brothels he'd been to, how many whores he'd bedded, he'd never exposed himself to anyone else like this. He hated his body for more reasons than he could name, and he didn't want anyone to see it, least of all someone who might judge him harshly.

Tyrion could feel Sansa's eyes trailing along his skin, down his chest, over his abdomen, and lower still, to the engorged flesh between his legs. He thought he saw her flinch as she caught sight of his manhood for the first time, but he wasn't sure. It might have been a trick of the candlelight. If she had flinched, she'd recovered admirably because, when she met his gaze again, there was not the slightest hint of fear or disgust in her eyes.

Sansa pulled back the furs and slipped beneath them. She sat with her back up against the headboard, her lap covered but her breasts still exposed, her hair floating around her shoulders. Seeing her like that, Tyrion couldn't help but wish that she had come to him out of love and desire, not duty and honor. But even though he had quite an extraordinary imagination, he simply couldn't fool himself into imagining that Sansa was there because she loved him or wanted him.

Tyrion stared at Sansa, unable to move. She was achingly beautiful, and he was paralyzed by the thought of climbing into bed and making love to her again. He was afraid to move closer, afraid to touch her, afraid to have all his dreams shattered. As long as he kept his distance, he could live in that moment forever, admiring his wife's beauty and protecting his own heart.

But the moment couldn't last forever, and finally, Sansa broke the silence between them. "If you extinguish the candles," she said, "you can pretend that I'm one of your whores. I'm sure it will make things easier for you."

Tyrion wanted to swear, but he bit his tongue. He tore his eyes away from Sansa and looked about the room, wondering how long it would take him to blow out all the candles, wondering if that was what she truly wanted. But despite what Sansa thought, Tyrion had no desire to pretend that she was another woman. She had asked him to share her bed for one night, and he was going to do it, but he was going to do it his way or not at all.

When Tyrion looked at Sansa again, he said, "I think I would prefer to leave the lights on. Unless, of course, it will make it easier for you to pretend that I'm someone else. Are you still longing to have the Knight of Flowers in your bed?"

A flicker of emotion passed behind Sansa's eyes. Tyrion thought it was pain, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't know what about his words had hurt her. Had she truly loved Loras Tyrell? If she had, he pitied her more than he pitied himself.

"Leave them be then," Sansa said, her voice suddenly chilly. "I have no desire to pretend."

"Well, then, that makes two of us."

Tyrion reached for the edge of the furs. He pulled them back and climbed into bed beside her, quickly tugging the covers up over his lap, feeling far too exposed for his liking.

They sat there for a moment, side by side, not looking at each other, not speaking a single word. Tyrion wasn't sure what to do. His wife was no virgin – not anymore – and he knew he didn't have to tread quite as carefully as he had the first time they had been together, but he didn't want to just climb on top of her and push himself inside either. He wanted her to want him, even if she hated herself for it. He wanted there to be some warmth between them, some connection. After all, they were trying to create a child, and Tyrion was certain it would be better if that child were created in love, not hate.

It took all of Tyrion's courage to turn his head and look at his wife. She was staring across the room, watching the flames dance in the hearth, seemingly lost in thought. He didn't want to disturb her, but he knew he had no choice.

"Sansa?"

She finally turned and looked at him. There was a softness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"I know this isn't what you want, but—"

Sansa didn't let him finish. Before Tyrion knew what was happening, her lips were pressed against his and her fingers were threading through his hair.

Tyrion's breath hitched in his throat, and he sat there in stunned silence, simply too shocked to react. But soon enough, his body overpowered his mind and he started kissing her back. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and drew her closer, coaxing her lips apart and tasting her sweetness.

Sansa moaned softly, clutching Tyrion even tighter. Without warning, she dragged him down onto the mattress so that they were lying next to each other, her mouth still feverishly exploring his. Her breasts pressed into his chest, burning his skin and making the blood rush to his cock. Tyrion wanted her so desperately, and he was astonished that she seemed to want him too.

Of course, in the back of his mind, Tyrion knew that there was every chance that Sansa was thinking of someone else. Whether it was the Knight of Flowers or Littlefinger or Eddard's father, he didn't know. Tyrion wanted to believe that Sansa wanted him, but he wasn't quite fool enough for that. He was no dream lover, at least not as far as Sansa Stark was concerned, and he would have to content himself with the passion she felt for another.

They kissed until they were both breathless, and when Sansa finally broke away, her hands stayed in Tyrion's hair and her eyes locked with his. The desire he saw there was so intense that, for the briefest of moments, Tyrion was certain it was meant for him and him alone. He wanted to say something, to tell Sansa how much he wanted her, how much he loved her – because he did love her, he loved everything about her – but he couldn't. He knew that if he so much as opened his mouth to speak, he would ruin everything between them. He didn't want to fight with Sansa. He just wanted to love her.

And so Tyrion closed the distance between them and kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her lips against his own. It had been so long since he had felt any kind of tenderness that his heart nearly swelled to bursting.

Sansa's hands trailed over Tyrion's body, brazenly exploring his flesh. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders, ran along the planes of his chest, skimmed over his hips. Every nerve in Tyrion's body trembled at her touch, and his cock throbbed with each new sensation. When Sansa's fingers glided along his hardened length, he almost came.

Tyrion groaned. He tried to focus his attention on something other than the feel of his wife's hand teasing his long-neglected cock, but he was having little success. If he spilled his seed in her hand and not inside her, this entire exercise would be a complete and utter failure and he knew Sansa would never forgive him for it.

Reaching between them, Tyrion entwined his fingers with Sansa's and gently drew her hand away. He pulled her closer, his hardened shaft pressing against her stomach, as he finally let go of her hand. Then, he began his own exploration, hoping to distract her from her earlier pursuit.

Tyrion's hands roamed her body, and he reveled in the feel of Sansa's skin beneath his fingers. It had been so long since he'd touched a woman that he'd almost forgotten how wonderful it felt! Although Sansa believed that he'd bedded dozens of whores since they'd been wed, it wasn't true. Tyrion hadn't been with anyone else since he and Sansa had been married in the Great Sept of Baelor. Of course, he knew why it was hard for her to believe the truth. He had a reputation as a notorious reprobate with the sexual appetites of a rutting animal. But that had been before. Before they'd been wed. Before he'd murdered Shae. Tyrion had visited more than one brothel since he'd escaped Westeros, but he'd never been able to do more on those visits than drown himself in drink. It was part devotion to his wife and part guilt over what he had done to the last whore who had shared his bed. After he'd left Westeros, whoring had lost all its appeal and drink had become his only solace.

But Tyrion knew that Sansa would never believe that, and he was tired of trying to convince her. Just as she was tired of trying to convince him that he was Eddard's father. When they spoke with words, they always ended up hurting each other, but Tyrion was quickly learning that, when they spoke with their bodies, everything changed.

Desperate to show her just how much he adored her, Tyrion finally relinquished Sansa's mouth and blazed a trail of heated kisses down her neck and to her breasts. As he kissed one hard nipple, Sansa's fingers laced through his hair, and she arched her back off the mattress, encouraging him to take her deeper into his mouth. Tyrion dutifully obliged, and Sansa sighed in contentment.

Tyrion sucked and licked and nipped at the rosy peak until Sansa was squirming beneath him. Then, he kissed his way to her other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

Sansa crooked one leg over Tyrion's hip, nestling her other knee between his legs and pushing her sex against his thigh. Tyrion gasped, startled by the unexpected contact. Without thinking, he began to move his leg, pressing it against her in a slow, steady rhythm, causing her to moan wantonly.

The Sansa Stark that Tyrion had bedded back in King's Landing had not shown this kind of boldness in the bedchamber, and he couldn't help but wonder who had taught her to seek her own pleasure. Had it been Eddard's father or someone else? Or had she learned it on her own? Suddenly, an image flashed before Tyrion's eyes of his wife lying naked in her bed, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, her eager fingers buried deep inside her. And again, he almost came, the mere thought of his wife pleasuring herself simply too much for him to bear.

Tyrion pulled back, desperate to put some distance between them before he ruined everything. He'd been celibate for far too long, and he was woefully out of practice when it came to controlling his own body.

Tyrion tried to slip from Sansa's arms, but she kept her leg locked over his hip, her hands in his hair, refusing to let him go. He looked up at her and was startled by the desire he saw in her eyes. He still wasn't sure who Sansa wanted, but it was obvious that she was desperate to be loved.

Overcome with emotion, Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but thankfully, he never got the chance. Before he could even catch his breath, Sansa maneuvered him onto his back. She straddled his hips, hovering above him for a moment, before leaning down and devouring his mouth.

Tyrion sighed deeply, his hands clutching at her back as he tried to pull her even closer. She moved her hips against him in a primal rhythm, taking what she wanted with shameless abandon. Tyrion wondered how long it would be until she raised up on her knees and impaled herself on his cock. He was equal parts shocked and thrilled by his wife's behavior, and he was helpless to do anything but lie there and let her have her way with him.

Soon, Sansa was kissing her way down his neck and across his chest. She stopped at one nipple, licking and sucking just as he had done to her, and Tyrion couldn't deny that it felt damned good. He entwined his fingers in her hair and let her have her fill of him.

Sansa kissed a meandering path all the way down his stomach, stopping just long enough to swirl her tongue in his navel before moving lower. Tyrion stared down at her in silent wonder as she explored his body with her mouth and hands. She seemed hungry for him, desperate, as if she was trying to memorize every last inch of him for some unfathomable reason.

When her eager mouth finally neared his cock, Sansa paused. She looked up at Tyrion, and they stared at each other in heart stopping silence. Sansa's eyes were cloudy with desire, but also uncertainty, and he wondered if she was waiting for permission to continue or just working up the courage to do what she had already decided to do.

Every muscle in Tyrion's body was taut with anticipation, and he feared that, whatever Sansa did next, would be his undoing. But he didn't want her to stop. He wanted her to keep going until she was well and truly sated.

Tyrion swallowed hard. Then, he nodded, hoping that was what Sansa needed.

Sansa finally broke his gaze, turning her attention back to the throbbing shaft between his legs. Slowly, gently, she reached up a hand and skimmed her fingers along his aching flesh.

Tyrion fought the urge to swear. He gripped the bedsheets and concentrated all his energy on not coming in her hand.

Sansa glanced up at Tyrion, her expression suddenly inscrutable. Without looking away, she ran her fingers up his length again, making him shiver. The hint of a smile ghosted her lips, and she repeated the movement, obviously enjoying his reaction.

Sansa caressed him with the most exquisite tenderness, nearly driving him mad. Finally, she looked away, her eyes drifting downward to give his manhood her full attention. She took her time with him, teasing and torturing, until Tyrion was moaning beneath her.

"Sansa, please." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They sounded so weak, so desperate. He didn't think he had ever sounded more pitiful in all his life.

Tyrion thought Sansa might ignore his pleading, but she didn't. With calculated slowness, she lowered her head and placed a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

Tyrion hissed through his teeth. He wrapped his fingers even more tightly in the bedsheets, trying to keep his body under control.

Sansa trailed a row of chaste, delicate kisses down one side of his shaft and then up the other. When she reached the tip again, she did the unthinkable. She lowered her head and took him into her mouth.

Tyrion nearly bolted off the bed. His hips arched upward, and for a single instant, he truly thought he was going to die. He had never felt anything more glorious, and he could barely process the deluge of sensations flooding his body. Sansa's mouth was warm, wet, eager, and what she lacked in technique, she more than made up for in enthusiasm. Tyrion was so hard that he was afraid he might choke her, but Sansa didn't seem the least bit concerned. She was just as enraptured by him as he was by her, and he didn't think anything in the world could have fazed her at that moment. Winterfell could have been on fire, and Sansa wouldn't have cared.

"Sansa." Tyrion choked out her name, wanting her to continue but also desperate for her to relent. They were in her bed for a purpose, a purpose they both seemed to have forgotten.

Tyrion reached down, threading his fingers through Sansa's hair, trying to get her attention. "Sansa . . . please . . . stop," he said through labored breaths. "Please."

She didn't seem to hear him at first, but he kept pleading, and eventually, she pulled back, gazing up at him with glassy eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice barely her own.

"This . . . you can't . . . please, stop."

Sansa's brow furrowed, and her cheeks tinged a darker shade of pink, and Tyrion couldn't tell if she was confused or insulted.

"If you keep going," he said, somehow managing to get all the words out in one breath, "I'm not going to last long enough to give you a baby. Do you understand?"

Sansa stared at him blankly, as if trying to comprehend his words. It took her a moment, but finally, she nodded.

"Good." Tyrion held out his hand to her, inviting her to move up the bed. "Now, shall we get on with it?"

Sansa turned onto her side, intending to lie down next to him, but that wasn't what Tyrion wanted. She had already done an admirable job of taking control, and he had no intention of asserting dominance now. Before she could lie down, he grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

"Not like that," he said.

Sansa's eyes met Tyrion's, and he could tell by the uncertainty in her gaze that she didn't understand what he wanted.

"You were doing just fine before," he said gently. "I want you to keep going. I want you to get on top of me and take your pleasure."

The blood drained from Sansa's cheeks, her previous boldness suddenly forgotten. She shook her head. "No, I—"

"Yes, you can. This is your night, Sansa. Take what you want from me while you still can. I am yours to command."

Sansa glanced down at Tyrion's cock, making it pulse with need, and he wanted nothing more than to bury it inside her. But he stayed perfectly still, biding his time and waiting to see if his wife would do as he'd asked.

When Sansa looked up at Tyrion again, there was renewed determination in her eyes. Slowly, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, kissing him with a softness and a sweetness that warmed his blood. As she continued to kiss him, she slipped one leg over his body and settled herself above him, her heated flesh pressing urgently against his shaft.

Tyrion wanted her so badly that he could barely breathe. He had never wanted anything more in his entire life. Not gold, not power, not even his father's love. He wanted Sansa more than he had ever wanted anything, and if he died right then and there, he knew he would die a happy man.

Sansa deepened the kiss, kissing him one last time before finally breaking away and sitting back on her knees. She stared into his eyes with unmistakable desire, and Tyrion dug his fingers into the mattress, waiting for her to claim him.

Her eyes never leaving his, Sansa lifted up on her knees, repositioned herself above him, and then, with excruciating slowness, lowered herself down onto his cock.

Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut, the feel of her surrounding him nearly his undoing. He gripped the mattress even tighter, trying to hold himself back, trying to last as long as he could.

Sansa took her time adjusting to the feel of him inside her, moving tentatively at first, striving to find a rhythm that suited her. It wasn't long before she found it and began to take her pleasure in earnest. She rode him hard, as if she hadn't been touched by a man in five long years, and for one glorious moment, Tyrion chose to believe that it was true, that it was all true. He chose to believe that Sansa loved him, that she had been faithful to him since the day they'd been wed, that Eddard was his son. He chose to believe it all because he wanted to. He wanted it more than anything.

Sansa drove him to the edge with startling quickness, and every muscle in Tyrion's body tensed in anticipation. His mind stopped working, and he was barely conscious of anything but the feel of his cock pulsing inside her and her cries of pleasure mingling with his own.

And then, suddenly, it happened.

Sansa ground down onto him, and Tyrion's whole body shuddered with release. He came hard inside her, her name tearing from his throat. Above him, Sansa continued to strive toward her own climax, sending little shocks of pleasure shooting up his spine. He sank down into the mattress, his limbs weak, his body trembling with fulfilment. He opened his eyes and stared up at her, watching her in silent wonder as she fought to take what was rightfully hers.

A few more frenzied thrusts of her hips and Sansa came crashing over the edge, her walls pulsing around him, his name falling from her lips. She nearly collapsed on top of him, her palms pressing into the mattress on either side of him to keep herself aloft. She hovered over Tyrion, her head down, her breath ragged, her hair cascading against his chest like a wall of fire. He ached to reach up and run his fingers through her hair, but he was too spent to even move.

They stayed that way for a long time, both struggling to catch their breath. Tyrion had no idea what was going to happen now. Would Sansa demand that he leave her bed, or would she let him linger to enjoy the afterglow of their coupling?

Tyrion remembered the first time he and Sansa had been together, how he'd longed to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight. He hadn't, of course. He'd given her space instead, afraid that asking for true intimacy would have been asking for too much. Now, once again, he longed for that closeness – perhaps even more than he had the last time – but he refused to ask anything of Sansa that he knew she wasn't willing to give.

When her breathing finally slowed, Sansa raised her head, her eyes locking with Tyrion's. Her expression was unreadable, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. He held his breath, waiting to see what she would do next.

Slowly, Sansa seemed to come back to herself. She glanced away awkwardly, then eased herself off of him, finally relinquishing his cock.

The cold air was a shock to Tyrion's system, and he inhaled a sharp breath. Sansa moved away, lying on the bed beside him, grabbing for the furs and pulling them all the way up to her chin. Tyrion didn't try to cover himself. He was still too exhausted to move.

They continued to lay there together, both staring up at the ceiling, neither one saying a single word. The room was deathly quiet except for the fire crackling in the hearth. Tyrion yearned to turn toward his wife, rest his head on her shoulder, and snuggle beneath the furs with her, but he knew such a display of tenderness would be unwelcome. Sansa had invited him into her bed to fulfill a duty, that was all. No matter how much pleasure they'd given each other, there was still an ocean of mistrust between them, and nothing was going to change that. Although Tyrion had been able to forget his doubts in the heat of passion, reality was starting to creep back in and all his doubts had returned. He knew he couldn't stay in Sansa's bed forever. The sooner he left, the sooner he could stop torturing himself with what might have been.

Tyrion sat up, the movement making him dizzy. He stilled for a moment, his eyes resting on the hearth, oblivious to the flames dancing within. Sansa sat up beside him, and when he finally turned to look at her, he saw that she had the furs clutched tightly to her chest. It was obvious that the spell she'd been under had been broken, and she was once again the proper, demure young woman he had always believed her to be.

They stared at each other for the longest time, not a word spoken between them. Tyrion didn't know what there was to say. They had done what they'd intended to do – with a few diversions along the way – but now, their task was complete and there was nothing more to be done.

"I should be going," he said, his voice sounding foreign in the quiet room.

Sansa looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn't. She just nodded, letting him know that it was all right for him to go.

Tyrion dragged his eyes away from her, biting back a curse. He turned and climbed down from the bed, retrieving his nightshirt and robe and slipping into them with unsteady hands. He could feel Sansa's eyes upon him, watching his every move. He wasn't sure if she was watching because she was fascinated by the sight of him or because she wanted to make sure that he truly intended to leave.

When Tyrion was finally presentable again, he turned back toward the bed and looked up at his wife. She was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he had no desire to leave her, but he knew he had no choice. "Good night, my lady. I pray you sleep well."

"Good night, my lord."

Tyrion would have given anything in the world to hear Sansa say his name at that moment, but he had already gotten more than he deserved. He couldn't be greedy. The gods wouldn't like that.

Tyrion bowed his head, then turned and walked to the door. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to turn around, throw himself into her arms, and kiss her senseless. But despite the unbridled passion she had displayed earlier, he knew that was the last thing she wanted. They had made their peace with each other and had agreed to go their separate ways for the night. Tyrion knew it was better to accept that than to risk ending the evening in an argument.

Without another word, Tyrion opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He pulled the door closed behind him and stood there in the quiet silence, trying to catch his breath. He wanted Sansa so desperately, even now, and yet, he knew they would probably never spend another night together. She had invited him into her bed once, just once, in hopes of producing a child. If it had worked, he would never touch her again.

An anguished sob ripped from Tyrion's throat, and he swore beneath his breath, hating himself for being such a fool. He had gotten his hopes up again. For one brief moment while Sansa had been making love to him, he'd actually thought that it was all real, this fairytale life that the gods had dangled in front of him like a shiny bauble. But it wasn't real. It was all just an illusion. Sansa may have wanted him in the heat of the moment, but that didn't mean she wanted him in her life, and he had to remember that. If he didn't, he'd surely get his heart broken again, and this time, he would never recover.


	23. Chapter 22

Author's Note: After reviewing the remaining chapters in this story, I realized that my initial chapter count was incorrect. Including the prologue and epilogue, this story will have 34 chapters, not 32.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-two

Sansa stared at the closed door, her entire body trembling. She wanted to bolt from the bed, dash across the room, and call after Tyrion. She wanted to beg him to come back, but she couldn't. She could barely even move. Her limbs were weak, and her whole body still ached with the memory of his touch. She was certain, if she even tried to stand, her legs would buckle beneath her.

Sansa wished she'd had the courage to ask Tyrion to stay, but despite everything Jaime had said just a few hours earlier, she'd been afraid to let herself believe that Tyrion felt anything for her but a sense of obligation. Although Tyrion had been nothing but gentle and attentive when he'd been in her bed, she knew that didn't mean that he loved her. He was simply very good at pleasing women, and she had merely benefited from a lifetime of ill-gotten experience. When he'd touched her, kissed her, she'd felt like the only woman in the world. But the moment he had closed the door behind him, reality had crushed her like a stone, and she'd instantly remembered that she was just one among hundreds and that the affection he had shown her was nothing more than artifice.

Over the years, Sansa had spent many long, lonely nights imagining what it would be like to lie with Tyrion again. As the years had passed, her fantasies had grown more ardent, more desperate. When he had finally come to her bed, instead of acting like a lady, she had behaved no better than a Flea Bottom whore. She loved Tyrion, she wanted Tyrion, and since she'd been unable to tell him with words, she'd done all she could to show him with her body.

Her limbs still trembling, Sansa sank down under the furs, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. Her skin burned at the memory of her own wanton behavior, and she couldn't help but wonder what Tyrion thought of her now. She had touched him, kissed him, done unspeakable things to him in her sheer desperation to create new memories for the lonely years ahead. Did he think the worst of her now? Sansa almost laughed. Tyrion already thought very little of her, and she was certain that nothing she had done that night could have made it any worse.

With a shuddering sigh, Sansa turned onto her side, curling up into a little ball. She stared blankly at the wall in front of her, trying not to cry. Tyrion had given her exactly what she'd asked for, and yet, she was more miserable now than she had been before he'd come to her. Having him in her bed had done nothing to quell the ache in her heart. She still wanted him. She wanted him to trust her. She wanted him to love her just as much as she loved him.

Sansa closed her eyes, sobbing with the effort. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to fall asleep. She couldn't take any more pain tonight. All she wanted to do was forget about Tyrion Lannister, forget the way he made her feel, forget the way he made her heart long for something she knew she could never have. She wanted to be free of him since he'd already decided that he wanted to be free of her.

Sansa lay there for the longest time, barely conscious of anything but the ache in her heart. At first, she didn't hear the soft rap at the door, but it quickly worked its way through her addled brain, and her whole body tensed.

_Please, don't be Eddard_, Sansa silently prayed. She didn't want him to see her suffering. He deserved better than to sneak into his mother's room in the middle of the night only to find her hiding beneath the covers, on the verge of tears.

Sansa stayed silent, hoping that whoever was at the door would go away. But they didn't. Barely another moment passed before the door creaked open and someone stepped inside.

Sansa stayed huddled beneath the furs, pretending to sleep. She listened as the door closed behind her and familiar footsteps padded across the floor. It wasn't Eddard who had snuck into her chamber, it was Arya, and Sansa sighed in relief. She opened her eyes and stared at the wall again, waiting for Arya to approach.

A few seconds later, Arya climbed into bed next to Sansa, but she made no attempt to get beneath the covers. Instead, she snuggled up against Sansa's back, draping one arm around her and resting her cheek against Sansa's shoulder.

An involuntary sob escaped Sansa's throat, and suddenly, she was crying in earnest.

"I'll kill that bastard," Arya said, her words far softer than their meaning implied.

"No." Sansa shook her head, sniffling plaintively as she tried to fight back the tears. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't he? He just left you here, miserable and alone."

"I didn't ask him to stay," Sansa said in a small voice.

"Well, he should have seen that you wanted him to stay, and he shouldn't have left."

Sansa laughed bitterly. "No. I don't expect him to know what I want, any more than I know what he wants."

"But it's obvious to anyone who looks at you. You want him, and you wanted him to stay. And he's a fool if he couldn't see that."

"We're both fools."

"You're not a fool, Sansa," Arya said. "Tyrion may be a fool. I won't argue with you there. But you're not. All you've ever been to him was a loving and faithful wife. He's the one who ruined everything."

Arya had a point, and Sansa could do nothing to refute it. If only Tyrion had believed her about Eddard from the start, things might have been very different between them. But he hadn't believed her – he still didn't believe her – and that had destroyed any chance they might have had at happiness. "It doesn't matter," Sansa said. "What's done is done, and it can't be changed."

Arya cuddled closer, and they settled into a long silence. Sansa was glad for her sister's company. As children, Sansa could never have imagined sharing a moment like this with Arya. They'd always been adversaries, constantly at each other's throats. But now, things were different. The tragedies they'd shared had profoundly altered their relationship. There weren't many Starks left in the world, and the ones who had survived had no choice but to cling to each other for dear life.

Time seemed to stand still as they lay there, quietly listening to the fire crackling in the hearth. Arya's breathing was so shallow that Sansa was certain she had drifted off to sleep, but Arya suddenly surprised her by breaking the silence. "Was it everything you wanted it to be?" she asked, her voice soft, almost childlike.

"It was."

"Do you think you'll ask him to visit you again?"

The question hung in the air between them for a long time. Sansa didn't know how to answer it. She wanted Tyrion to visit her again, but she didn't know if she could withstand the heartache. Every time he'd touched her tonight, her hopes had soared. But then, when he'd left her, cold and alone in her bed, all her hopes had instantly come crashing back down. She didn't know if she could survive being close to him again. Even though it brought her pleasure, it also brought her pain, and she'd already had all the pain she could stand for one lifetime. "I . . . I don't know," Sansa finally answered. "I just don't know."

"Well, I've been told it can take more than one go at it to make a baby. Perhaps you'll have no choice but to invite him to share your bed again."

Sansa didn't even want to entertain the possibility. The first time she and Tyrion had been together, they had produced a child. She hoped – no, she prayed – that they had done so again tonight. Even though it would mean that she would never lie with Tyrion again, it would also mean that she'd have another small piece of him to love when he finally abandoned her. "That is up to the gods to decide," Sansa said.

"Do you really trust the gods anymore?"

"No, not really."

"Then maybe you should make sure that your husband does his duty as many times as possible before he goes. You wouldn't want to leave everything up to the gods, would you?"

Sansa suddenly felt trapped in Arya's embrace. She turned onto her back, forcing her sister to pull away and give her some space. Arya propped herself up on her elbow and stared down at Sansa, watching her curiously.

"I don't think I could survive having Tyrion in my bed again," Sansa said as she pulled the furs up under her chin. "Just look at me. I've done nothing but cry since he left."

"Yes, but who's fault is that? You wanted him to stay, but you didn't ask him to stay. As much as I would love to place all the blame on Tyrion, on second thought, I'm not sure that I can."

"I know it's my own fault. I make no excuses about that. I am no coward."

"But you were a coward tonight, weren't you? Otherwise, you would have asked him to stay."

"I was a coward, yes," she said quietly, the sound barely a whisper, "but only in the end."

A wry smile quirked Arya's lips. "And the rest of the time?"

The heat instantly rose in Sansa's cheeks, and she was tempted to turn away again, but she was trying to demonstrate just how brave she was and cowering in shame would do nothing to prove her point. "The rest of the time, I was as brave as the bravest Stark who ever walked the halls of Winterfell."

Arya's smile broadened. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. You deserve something, Sansa. And if you weren't quite brave enough to tell Tyrion how you feel, then I'm glad you were brave enough to take what you wanted from him."

Sansa's heart sank, the modicum of pride she felt quickly chased away by her sister's words. "But I didn't take what I wanted. Not really," she said, tears beginning to sting her eyes. "He may have given me his body, but what I wanted was his love."

"Oh, Sansa."

Arya's expression softened, and Sansa could tell that her sister pitied her. Sansa hated being pitied, but she'd never felt more pitiful in all her life, so she could scarcely fault Arya.

Sansa sniffled, trying to hold back the tears. "Jaime says that Tyrion is in love with me, but I can't bring myself to believe it. Not even after Tyrion was in my bed. Not even after . . ." The words died in Sansa's throat. She was dangerously close to sharing too much with Arya. What had happened between her and Tyrion was private, sacred, and she didn't want to share it with anyone, not even her sister.

"After what?" Arya asked, cocking a brow in question.

"After . . . after the way he treated me tonight," Sansa said vaguely. "He was gentle and kind and patient, and for a moment, I thought—" She inhaled a tremulous breath. "It doesn't matter what I thought."

"You thought that maybe he loved you too."

"Well, Jaime seems to think so."

Arya was quiet for a moment, and it felt like ages before she replied. "It's possible," she said flatly. "Actually, I can't imagine why he wouldn't love you. You're beautiful, you're kind, and you're a far better wife than he deserves."

"And he thinks I've been unfaithful to him," Sansa reminded Arya, lest she forget.

Arya shrugged. "Yes, well, that doesn't mean he doesn't love you. Men aren't always wise when it comes to matters of the heart."

Sansa didn't want to talk about it any longer. She turned away from Arya again, nestling even deeper beneath the covers.

Arya sidled up next to her, close, but not too close. She rested her head on Sansa's shoulder. "What makes Jaime think that Tyrion's in love with you?"

It was hard for Sansa to answer. Jaime's words had been haunting her for hours, and she was still having difficulty accepting them. "He thinks that Tyrion is desperate to be loved," she said. "He thinks that Tyrion wants me and Eddard more than he wants anything in the world, but that he's too afraid to let himself believe that we could ever love him."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Arya replied, "which makes me think it must be true."

Sansa shook her head. "No. If he loved me, he would have stayed tonight."

"You love him, and you let him go. So that doesn't prove anything."

Sansa bit her bottom lip, trying to keep herself from saying something she might regret. She didn't want to admit that Arya was right. If she did, it would mean putting her faith in Tyrion again, trusting him again, and she wasn't quite ready to do that. Although she truly wanted to believe that he loved her, she simply couldn't. He had barely spoken a kind word to her since his return, and despite what they had just shared, it was difficult for her to believe that he felt anything for her beyond a sense of obligation.

"I knew he didn't want to stay," Sansa said, "so there was no point in asking."

"Next time, ask."

"There isn't going to be a next time."

"Yes, there is," Arya answered. "In a day or two, you'll feel differently than you do now. Once you've gotten through the night, you'll want him again. And the next time he comes to you, just ask him to stay."

Sansa was certain that there wasn't going to be a next time, but she didn't want to argue with Arya anymore. She knew that Arya thought she was being irrational, but Sansa was too hurt to be rational. She was too hurt to do anything but feel.

Arya snuggled closer, and she and Sansa fell into another long silence. Sansa closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the sound of Arya's breathing as she drifted off to sleep, the small body next to hers a poor substitute for the man she wanted in her bed.


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-three

Tyrion barely slept that night, his dreams haunted by a crimson-haired goddess who was always just beyond his reach. When he awoke the next morning, he was tired and irritable, and more than a little anxious about seeing Sansa again. As he headed to breakfast, his heart beat an uneven rhythm and his legs trembled beneath him.

When Tyrion reached Sansa's solar, he was surprised to find her missing. She was always the first one at the table, and it felt odd to see the rest of the family sitting there without her. Jaime and Brienne sat beside each other on one side of the table, while Eddard and Arya sat together on the other.

The instant Eddard saw Tyrion, he was out of his chair and across the room. "Good morning!" he squealed as he threw his arms around Tyrion's waist and hugged him tightly.

Tyrion held Eddard for a moment, enjoying being close to the boy. "Good morning, Little Lord Lannister."

Eddard laughed, squeezing Tyrion just a little bit tighter. Then, he pulled from Tyrion's arms and raced back to his seat.

"Good morning," Jaime said with a knowing grin as Tyrion crossed the threshold. "Care to join us for some breakfast?"

Tyrion headed toward the table, being careful not to look in Arya's direction. He didn't want to know what she thought of him at that moment, although he was sure she would make her feelings abundantly clear before breakfast was over.

Tyrion sat down at the head of the table, Jaime to his immediate right. He stared at Sansa's empty chair, feeling her absence acutely. Despite his insecurities, he missed her already and he wished that she had decided to join them.

The instant Tyrion was settled, Jaime leaned in close and asked, "Did you sleep well last night?"

Tyrion scowled. He pulled his eyes away from Sansa's chair and reached for the flagon of ale in front of him, pouring himself a tankard. "Don't ask."

"It couldn't have been that bad. I mean, you did . . . you know, didn't you?"

Tyrion glanced in Eddard's direction, realizing that Jaime was trying to keep the boy from hearing something he shouldn't, but Eddard was too distracted to notice. He was playing with his toy soldiers, doing his best to entertain his aunt Arya with their exploits.

As Tyrion turned to look at Jaime, he caught Arya's eye, and for a moment, they just stared at each other across the table. Tyrion's blood flushed cold in his veins, and he sensed a distinct chill in the air. Arya raised a single brow in challenge, and suddenly, Tyrion was certain that she knew every last thing that had passed between him and Sansa the night before.

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to look up at Jaime, keenly aware of Arya's eyes still upon him. "I did," Tyrion finally answered. "Or we did. I mean, it's done." He was as flustered as an adolescent boy who'd just spent his first night in a brothel, and he felt like a fool. Between Arya's pointed stares and the sly smirk on Jaime's face, Tyrion just wanted to dig a hole, crawl into it, and die. Sansa had been wise to skip the morning meal. Now, Tyrion was sorry he hadn't just taken breakfast alone in his chamber.

"It's done?" Jaime asked, his tone far too glib for Tyrion's liking. "And is that why Lady Lannister is not with us this morning? Is she too exhausted from doing her duty last night?"

"I wouldn't know," Tyrion replied. "I haven't seen her this morning."

"You haven't seen her? Didn't you . . ." Jaime's eyes darted to Eddard, who was still oblivious to their very grown-up conversation. "Didn't you spend the night?"

Tyrion broke Jaime's gaze, staring down at his plate to avoid looking at Arya again. "Not exactly," he said. "I left as soon as it was done."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jaime swore under his breath.

Tyrion refused to look at his brother again. Instead, he began filling his plate, determined to eat as quickly as possible and then disappear. Jaime didn't say another word about the previous night, for which Tyrion was grateful. He was beginning to think that not asking Sansa if he could stay had been a mistake, but he'd been too afraid of rejection – or rather, too certain of it – to even broach the subject.

As soon as Tyrion finished eating, he made his escape, heading to the Great Hall to start his work for the day. He felt an odd combination of anticipation and dread at the thought of seeing Sansa again. Although she had not been at breakfast, she was far too responsible to ever miss meeting with their daily petitioners, and he was reasonably certain that she would make an appearance.

Tyrion settled himself at the head table to confer with Maester Wolkan on the morning's agenda, all the while, listening intently for the sound of Sansa's footsteps in the corridor behind him. No more than a quarter of an hour passed before Tyrion heard her enter the room. He turned around just in time to see her step through the open doorway.

Their eyes met, and Sansa's feet faltered. She stopped for a single instant, staring back at Tyrion as if she hadn't expected to see him.

The breath stilled in Tyrion's lungs as he watched her, silently praying that she couldn't see the emotion in his eyes. He feared that if she looked at him for too long, she might detect his true feelings, and he wasn't quite prepared for that.

The moment passed just as quickly as it had come, and Sansa abruptly turned away. She moved to the table and took the seat beside him, her head held high, her shoulders back. Tyrion was tempted to say something, but he could tell that wasn't what she wanted. Sansa had already begun building up her walls again. Whatever they had shared the night before had not softened her feelings for him. She looked as thorny as ever, like a fortress whose ramparts he could never breach.

Tyrion inhaled a hard breath, tearing his eyes away from Sansa and forcing himself to turn toward Maester Wolkan again. They had a lot of work ahead of them, and Tyrion was determined to bury himself in it.

The rest of the morning was wholly uneventful. Tyrion and Sansa met with a score of petitioners, hearing appeals from bannermen and smallfolk alike. When they were done, Sansa pushed back her chair, stood to her full height, and walked out of the room without a single word.

Tyrion collapsed back against his chair with a sigh, wishing that things were different. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to follow her back to her chambers, lock the door behind them, and finally confess his feelings. There was so much he wanted to say, if only he had the courage to say it. He loved her more today than he had the day before. He'd spent years trying to deny it, but he couldn't deny it any longer. He loved her, he wanted her, and it was his fondest wish that she might someday love and want him too. But love like that wasn't meant for men like Tyrion. Oh, no. That's why the gods had created whores.

Tyrion wondered what Sansa would do if he tried to confess his undying love. Would she laugh at him? Probably. And if he told her that he wanted to stay? He was sure she would tell him that it was his right as the Lord of Winterfell and then coldly walk away.

Tyrion shook his head, reluctantly climbing down from his chair. He left the Great Hall, feeling no better about his relationship with Sansa than he had the night before. Although he had a mountain of work waiting for him in his study, he decided to go for a walk instead. He needed to clear his head more than he needed to reply to ravens.

Had the weather been more hospitable, Tyrion would have ventured outside, but a heavy snow had begun to fall and it was far too cold for idle rambles in the godswood. Instead, Tyrion found himself in the crypts beneath the keep, walking amongst all the dead Starks who had once inhabited the hallowed halls of Winterfell.

Tyrion hadn't visited the crypts on his first journey to the north. But when he'd returned this time, he'd been dragged there more than once by little Eddard. The boy loved to play games amongst the shadows of his ancestors, not the least bit troubled by the bodies decaying in the tombs around him. It was an odd choice for a child's playground, but perhaps that's what came of spending one's whole childhood raised in the heart of a northern winter. Some days it was simply too cold to play outside, so Eddard had been forced to find other ways, other places, to entertain himself.

Tyrion wandered through the crypts, stopping here and there to examine the stone effigies that lined the walls. As he stood before one particularly grim looking figure, deeply lost in his own thoughts, something suddenly grabbed his ankle.

Tyrion shrieked, jumping nearly a full foot in the air. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

There was laughter near the ground, familiar laughter. Tyrion peered down into the darkness at his feet and saw Eddard hiding behind one of the tombs, his back pressed up against the large stone block.

"What are you doing?" Tyrion asked, his voice far harsher than he'd intended. "You almost scared me to death."

"Shh," Eddard warned. He reached up and grabbed Tyrion's hand, pulling him down to the floor beside him.

"What is going on?"

"We're hiding from Uncle Jaime. We're playing hide-and-seek, and if you're not quiet, he'll find us. Shh." Eddard peered around the edge of the tomb as if expecting Jaime to discover them at any moment.

Tyrion leaned his head back against the carved stone behind him and took a moment to catch his breath. His heart was still racing, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so terrified. There was a part of him that wanted to take Eddard over his knee and give him a good spanking just for frightening him so, but he was not particularly fond of corporal punishment where children were concerned.

When Eddard was certain that Tyrion hadn't given them away, he turned back toward him, once again pushing himself up against the tomb.

"Don't you ever do that again," Tyrion scolded, still finding it difficult to breathe. "My heart nearly stopped."

"I'm sorry, but I thought Uncle Jaime might see you, and I didn't want him to find me."

Tyrion looked down at the little boy beside him. Eddard was staring out into the cavernous room, his eyes darting this way and that. He looked as if he was taking the game far too seriously, and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder where Jaime was.

"Just how long have you been hiding here?" Tyrion asked.

"I don't know. A long time. Uncle Jaime isn't very good at this game. I always win."

"Does he ever find you?"

"Sometimes he gets close, but he never finds me himself. I always have to jump out and surprise him."

"And nearly stop his heart in the process, I suppose."

"No. Uncle Jaime isn't scared of anything," Eddard replied, straightening his spine as if he himself took great pride in his uncle's courage.

"Well, at least that makes one of us."

There was a noise off in the distance, and Eddard turned his head, anxiously searching for the source of the sound. "Shh," he warned again, holding his hand up in front of Tyrion's face to silence him.

Tyrion was sure that it was nothing more than the drip of water seeping down from the walls or the ceiling, but he didn't say anything. If Eddard wanted to believe that it was Jaime – or even a dragon – he would let him. He didn't want to spoil the boy's fun.

Eddard sat there, quietly scanning the darkness, his knees bent against his chest, his eyes keen and aware. He looked so terribly serious, not like he was playing a game at all. In that moment, he reminded Tyrion very much of his mother, the serious girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, always so proper, so dignified. Even as a child, she'd been nothing more than a miniature adult. And Eddard had that in him too. Of course, he could also be brave and impetuous, but quite often, he was as serious as the tombs around him, and there was no denying that he was his mother's son.

Tyrion almost laughed. He'd spent the past moonturn studying the boy, trying to find evidence of his paternity, and in the end, it didn't really matter. He was Sansa Stark's son, and Tyrion loved him for that alone. Tyrion knew it was going to be painful when he finally left for Casterly Rock. He was sure, the next time he saw Eddard – if he ever saw him again – the boy would be a full-grown man and hate him just as much as Sansa did.

And what of the child they had tried to create the night before?

Tyrion had been so wrapped up in the idea of spending the night in Sansa's bed that he hadn't even thought about what would happen if she actually got pregnant. He didn't know if they had created a child together, but what if they had? What if there was already a babe growing in Sansa's belly, a little boy or a little girl? A dwarf. What if? Tyrion didn't even want to think about it, and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Would the child look like Eddard? Would he or she hate Tyrion as much as he hated himself?

Suddenly, there was another eerie sound in the distance, and Eddard crouched onto his knees, leaning forward to peer around the edge of the tomb, the large statue above him casting just enough shadow to keep him hidden. His feet danced impatiently behind him, and Tyrion knew he was just counting the seconds until his uncle appeared and he could burst forth from the darkness and startle him.

A bittersweet smile tugged at Tyrion's lips. He loved Eddard so damned much, and he knew it was going to kill him when he finally left Winterfell. It hurt to even think about, to even imagine. But Tyrion knew he couldn't stay. Despite what had happened the night before, he knew that Sansa didn't want him to stay. All they ever did was argue, and it would be better for everyone concerned if they just went their separate ways.

Tyrion exhaled a heavy sigh. He dragged his eyes away from Eddard and leaned his head back against the tomb behind him. He closed his eyes and desperately tried to get his emotions under control. He wished that things were different. He wished that Eddard was his son. He wished that he could believe that Sansa cared for him, that she had been faithful to him. But there were some things that he just couldn't let himself believe, no matter how much he wanted to.

Tyrion fought back a sob. He forced his eyes open, trying to chase his demons away. He looked straight ahead, scanning the vaulted room with curious eyes. He hadn't realized it earlier, but he had wandered into the newer section of the crypts, the tombs around him belonging to people he'd known in life. Tyrion stared at one figure in particular, looming above him like a sentinel in the darkness.

Lord Eddard Stark.

The stone effigy didn't look very much like Ned Stark, but Tyrion supposed whoever had carved it hadn't really known him. Sansa never talked about her father, not that she talked much at all. Tyrion knew that her father's death had been terribly traumatic for her. He knew that she had loved and respected him just as much as she had loved and respected her dearly departed mother. He wondered how often she visited his tomb. Did she come every day to light a candle for his eternal soul, or did she stay away, the memories simply too painful to bear?

As Tyrion stared up at his father-in-law's solemn face, he couldn't help but wonder what Ned Stark would have thought of the situation they had found themselves in. Would he have been horrified that Tyrion Lannister, of all people, had taken his place as the Lord of Winterfell? Tyrion knew he was not the kind of man that Ned Stark had wanted for his daughter, but he truly wished that he could be. He wished he could be everything that Sansa deserved, a man who could trust and love her unconditionally, despite his own crippling insecurities. He wished he had the courage to believe her. He wished there was some way he could take her words on more than faith.

Tyrion's heart suddenly stopped. He stared up at Ned Stark, the breath trapped in his lungs, as the awful truth finally washed over him. There was one way, of course. One terrible, horrible, unforgivable way for him to believe everything Sansa had ever told him. Tyrion hated himself for even thinking it, more than he had ever hated himself before. There was one way for him to know for certain if Eddard was his son, but he knew if he chose to pursue it, Sansa would never forgive him.

Tyrion forced himself to breathe, his heart suddenly racing at an alarming speed. Ned Stark stared down at him in silent condemnation, and Tyrion instinctively turned away, desperate to hide his guilt. He tried to focus on Eddard, still skulking in the dark beside him, but it was no use. He couldn't see the boy's little feet anxiously thumping against the ground, nor his golden curls bobbing in the hazy shadows. All he saw was Ned Stark's dark disapproval staring down at him from on high.

Tyrion felt the darkness closing in around him, and he wanted to run. He abruptly stood, desperate to escape as quickly as possible, but Eddard grabbed his hand before he could take a single step.

"Get down!" the boy commanded in a harsh whisper as he tugged on Tyrion's hand.

But Tyrion wouldn't budge. He stood there for a moment, relieved to be standing in the torchlight again, as he struggled to pull himself together. "I must go," he said, the words sounding as if they'd come from someone else.

"But what if Uncle Jaime sees you?"

"I will tell him that I don't know where you are and that you are definitely not hiding behind this tomb. All right?"

Eddard nodded his thanks, finally letting go of Tyrion's hand. He squirreled himself up against the stone block again and hunkered down to anxiously await his uncle's appearance.

Tyrion sighed in relief, happy that Eddard hadn't made more of a fuss. He quickly turned around and fled up the stairs, hoping beyond hope that he would never have reason to visit the crypts again.


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-four

For the next few days, Tyrion was oddly quiet around Sansa, and she couldn't help but worry. He only spoke to her when he absolutely had to, and he avoided her whenever he could. Occasionally, she would look up during a meal or when they were working together in the Great Hall and catch him watching her, but he would always turn away just as quickly. It seemed as if he could no longer bear to look her in the eye, and Sansa was certain that he regretted what had happened between them the night he had visited her chamber.

Sansa, however, had no regrets, and she already wanted Tyrion in her bed again. Arya had been right when she'd said that, given time, Sansa's feelings on the matter would change. Despite the pain and rejection that she knew would inevitably follow, Sansa wanted Tyrion more with every day that passed. It was still too soon to know if they had conceived a child, and Sansa wanted to try one more time before they lost the chance forever.

Early one morning, Sansa and Brienne headed out onto the covered bridge that ran between the Great Keep and the armory to watch Eddard and Jaime spar in the yard below. They stood side by side before one of the open windows, enjoying the crisp morning air as the fighting got underway. It brought Sansa great joy to watch Eddard sparring with his uncle, but it also made her heart ache just a little. Jaime had accepted Eddard as a trueborn Lannister. Why couldn't Tyrion?

"Jaime's going to miss Eddard very much when we leave," Brienne said. "I know he's hoping that whatever kind of child the gods give us, boy or girl, that it grows up to be just like Eddard. Nothing would make him happier."

The hint of a smile curved Sansa's lips, though it was bittersweet. "Eddard's going to miss him just as much. It's too bad you and Jaime can't stay here and send Tyrion back to Casterly Rock on his own. I think Winterfell would be a much happier place if you did."

"You don't really mean that."

Sansa pulled back her shoulders, focusing even more intently on Eddard. "I do. I think Tyrion could be quite content back home in the Westerlands, and we could all be quite content here without him."

Brienne was quiet for a moment, and Sansa hoped that was the end of the discussion. But it wasn't.

"May I ask you something rather delicate?" Brienne said, her voice softer than usual.

"I would rather that you didn't."

"But we're friends. Actually, we're sisters now. So, you'll indulge me, won't you?"

Sansa sighed heavily. She knew that Brienne was only trying to help, but she had no desire to discuss the intimate details of her marriage with anyone, and that seemed to be where the conversation was going. But if she refused Brienne now, she'd only be putting off the inevitable, and as far as Sansa was concerned, it was best to just get the interrogation over with.

Sansa kept her eyes focused on the yard, purposefully avoiding Brienne's gaze. "All right," she reluctantly conceded.

"I know I haven't asked until now. I didn't think you wanted to talk about it—"

"I don't."

"But what happened the other night between you and Tyrion? I know he did as you asked of him, but was it truly so terrible?"

Sansa clutched the windowsill in front of her, leaning on it for support. Her limbs suddenly felt weak, and it was a struggle for her to answer. "No, it wasn't terrible," she said. "At least, I didn't think so."

"Then what's wrong? You two have barely spoken in days. Did something happen?"

Sansa's cheeks burned hotly despite the bitter cold. She'd spent a lot of time trying to understand why Tyrion was actively avoiding her, and she'd come to one rather uncomfortable conclusion. "I may be wrong, but I believe I overstepped my bounds a bit when we were together. I . . . I asked more of him than I had any right to. I think he was horrified by my brazenness. There were moments when I behaved no better than one of his whores."

A small laugh escaped Brienne's throat, and Sansa glared at her from over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Brienne said, trying to keep the amusement from her voice. "But you don't really believe that, do you?"

"Of course, I believe it. Why wouldn't I? I am Sansa Lannister, the Lady of Winterfell. The world holds me to a different standard than other women. I'm sure Tyrion was horrified by my behavior that night. He hasn't looked me in the eyes since."

"I'm sure your behavior in the bedchamber has nothing to do with it. Perhaps he expects you to be uncomfortable around him and is just trying to be considerate of your feelings."

"No, I'm sure he distrusts me even more now than he did before." Sansa turned her attention back toward the yard, concentrating on Eddard and Jaime again. "He's always so quick to condemn. Knowing Tyrion, he probably thinks I learned such boldness from all the other men who've shared my bed."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

The air hitched in Sansa's throat, and it took her a moment to reply. "Talked to Tyrion about . . .? No, of course not. I could never—" Sansa turned around, finally facing Brienne. "You and Jaime don't talk about such things, do you?"

"Jaime and I talk about everything. There isn't any subject that we can't discuss openly and honestly, including what happens in the bedchamber."

Sansa's cheeks burned even hotter. "Yes, well, Tyrion and I aren't like that. We don't talk about anything of consequence, and even when we talk about innocuous things, we only end up arguing. I could never talk to him about what happened the other night. I can barely muster the courage to ask him to visit me again."

Brienne's lips quirked in a wry smile. "Do you want him to visit you again?"

"Yes," Sansa replied without a second thought. "For the sake of producing another child, of course."

"Oh, of course."

It was obvious that Brienne didn't believe her, but Sansa could hardly blame her for that. After all, Sansa had only told a half-truth. She wanted Tyrion in her bed again, not just because she was eager to produce another heir, but because she still wanted him desperately and she knew that he would be walking out of her life forever in just a few short weeks.

Brienne continued to stare at Sansa knowingly, and Sansa wilted under her scrutiny.

"It isn't what you think," Sansa said.

"Oh, and what is it that I think?"

"You think that I enjoyed having Tyrion in my bed and that it's the only reason that I want him to visit me again."

"No, that's not what I think," Brienne answered. "What I think is that you do want to produce an heir for Winterfell, but that you also enjoyed having Tyrion in your bed. We both admit that your motives have a practical component, but perhaps what we disagree on is the fact that there's a personal component as well. You enjoyed being bedded by your husband. There's no shame in that. And while he is still here and still willing, perhaps you should make the most of the opportunity while you can."

Sansa wanted to argue with Brienne, but she couldn't. Every last word Brienne had said was true. She did want Tyrion, for myriad reasons, and she had very little time left in which to enjoy his company.

"Have I said anything that is untrue?" Brienne asked. "Because if I have, please correct me, and I will make my apologies."

Sansa shook her head. "No, nothing," she said softly. "You're right. Everything you've said is right. Oh, Brienne." Sansa could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, and she did her best to fight them back. "I want him so much. Not just in my bed, but here at Winterfell, beside me always. If he just wasn't so stubborn and stupid—"

"All men have a way of being stubborn and stupid. That's how we know they're men."

"What am I going to do? Jaime told me that Tyrion loves me. I wish I could believe it was true, but—"

"I'm certain that he does."

"But why? How?" It had been three whole days since Sansa had talked to Jaime in the godswood, and she still couldn't bring herself around to his way of thinking. "If Tyrion really does care for me, why does he treat me the way that he does?"

"Well, Jaime has a theory about that."

"Yes, I know. But it's easier for me to believe that Tyrion's actions speak the truth inside his heart than it is for me to believe that he's secretly in love with me. Jaime says that Tyrion is afraid of being played for a fool, but he isn't the only one. I don't want to get my heart broken either."

"But isn't it already broken?"

Sansa stared at Brienne, the question resonating deep in her heart. Yes, it was already broken. It had been broken since the moment Tyrion had declared his belief that Eddard was not his trueborn son. And it had broken every time he had denied it thereafter. Every time he had questioned her fidelity. Every time he had stormed from the room after an argument. And especially the night he had left her chamber after they had made love, instead of staying behind to hold her. Tyrion had broken her heart more times than she could count, and now, there was very little of it left to break. "Tyrion has done an admirable job of tearing my heart to pieces, whether he intended to or not. Now, I wonder if there's enough of it left to ever be mended."

Brienne offered Sansa a sympathetic smile. "If you talk to him, yes. You just might be able to mend your broken heart and salvage what's left of your marriage. What's the worst that could happen? You get into another argument and he doesn't talk to you again before he leaves Winterfell? How is that any different than the way things are now? Unless, of course, you're afraid to risk him never visiting your bed again. But even if he does visit you, with the state you're both in now, will it really matter?"

Sansa weighed Brienne's words thoughtfully. The truth was, she didn't know why she was avoiding confronting Tyrion. Whether she talked to him or not, he was still going to leave. What was she risking by talking to him openly and honestly about what she wanted? Nothing, really. She was tired of Tyrion avoiding her. She was tired of the near-constant silence between them. She wanted to talk, really talk. She wanted to tell him how she felt, and maybe, just maybe, get him to confess his own feelings. Because if they couldn't start being honest with each other, what did the rest of it even matter?

Sansa turned away, unable to bear Brienne's scrutiny any longer. "You're right," she said. "About all of it."

"Then talk to him. Tell him what you want. Tell him how you feel. He'll only be here a short while longer. Don't spend the next few weeks living in anger and fear and silence. Talk to your husband and see if you can work any of it out before he goes."

Sansa nodded, even though the idea of confronting Tyrion made her undeniably nervous. There were so many ways it could all go wrong. Did she invite him to her bed again and force him to talk to her while they were both naked beneath the furs? Did she simply go to his study and bolt the door until he was willing to believe the truth? How could she possibly get him to understand just how much he meant to her and how much she wanted things to be different between them? She knew that nothing she said or did could get him to stay at Winterfell, but at the very least, she wanted him to leave on good terms.

As if her scattered thoughts had somehow given life to him, Tyrion suddenly appeared in the yard, ambling toward Eddard and Jaime as they continued to clash on the imaginary battlefield. The instant Eddard saw his father, he stabbed Jaime in the gut and ran to Tyrion, pulling on his hand and begging him to join in his fight against the evil Night King. Tyrion laughed and took the wooden sword that Eddard offered him, and soon, they were fighting Jaime on the snowy ground below.

Sansa couldn't help but stare at Tyrion, and she wondered if he could feel her eyes upon him. If he could, he certainly didn't show it, his attention seemingly focused on defeating Jaime, who had somehow transformed into the Night King at Eddard's command. Tyrion was no warrior, but he was a good strategist. He knew his own weaknesses and his own strengths, and he used that knowledge quite admirably. He instructed Eddard to go for Jaime's legs, and together, they both struck him behind the knees, bringing him down to their level.

"That's cheating!" Jaime exclaimed, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"That's war," Tyrion countered as he struck at his brother, trying to make purchase.

They fought like that for some time, Jaime on his knees and Tyrion and Eddard battling him like the bravest soldiers in all the king's army. Sansa knew that once Tyrion and Jaime were gone, she was going to miss moments like this. Eddard would go back to sparring with Arya every morning, of course, but it wouldn't be the same. Arya was always as serious as the grave when it came to swordplay, but Tyrion and Jaime knew how to make it a game for the little boy they both seemed to love so much.

Sansa felt Brienne move in closer, and she gripped the windowsill more firmly between her gloved fingers.

"I'm going to miss this when we return to Casterly Rock," Brienne said.

"So am I."

"I think Jaime is going to make a wonderful father, don't you? Just like Tyrion."

A reluctant smile tugged at Sansa's lips. Despite all his other failings, Tyrion did make an excellent father. He was patient and kind, engaging and supportive. She knew he couldn't have been more caring and loving toward Eddard if he'd truly believed that he was his own son. But he didn't. And even though Eddard hadn't the slightest notion that his father had denied him, Sansa knew, and it tore at her soul.

"I'm going to talk to Tyrion," Sansa said. "Tonight. I'll find a way. We'll settle things between us once and for all. We can't go on like this. I'm tired of fighting, and I would like to enjoy what little time we have left together."

"Good," Brienne said. "I'm glad. And not just for Eddard's sake, but for yours and Tyrion's as well. I think you could be very happy together if you could only settle things between you."

"I'm not sure that we can," Sansa replied, "but I'm willing to try. After all, what do I have to lose?"


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-five

That night at dinner, Tyrion could hardly eat. Sansa kept looking at him as if there was something she wanted to say but couldn't quite find the words. She'd been avoiding him for days now, just as he'd been avoiding her, but Tyrion had known it couldn't last forever. It was obvious that Sansa wanted to talk, whether he was prepared for it or not.

Three days had passed since Tyrion had shared Sansa's bed, and the memory of it still haunted him. As he watched her from across the table, he couldn't help but wonder if she was trying to summon up the courage to ask him to visit her again. There was only a slight possibility that she was already with child, and perhaps she was hoping to maximize their chances of conceiving before he left. If asked, Tyrion would go to her gladly, though he knew it wouldn't settle anything between them. They were still strangers. They were still separated by an ocean of doubt and mistrust, and Tyrion knew there was nothing he could do to change that. Well, there was one thing, of course, but he feared it would do more harm than good.

After dinner, as everyone left Sansa's solar and went their separate ways, Tyrion tried to sneak out of the room, but Sansa stopped him. "Tyrion. A word, please."

Tyrion stopped halfway through the door. Reluctantly, he turned around and looked up at Sansa. "I really must be going," he said, trying to keep his voice calm even though his heart was racing. "I spent far too much time entertaining Eddard today, and even though it's late, I have a great deal of work to do. There are some ravens from the Citadel and a report to Jon and—"

"And this is more important." Sansa motioned toward the open door. "Please," she said, urging him to close it.

But Tyrion couldn't. Other than the night he had visited her bedchamber, every time they had been alone together, behind closed doors, it had ended in an argument. And Tyrion was in no mood for an argument tonight.

"Perhaps we should take a walk," Tyrion suggested, suddenly feeling the walls closing in on him.

"A walk? But it's dark outside, and the night air is far too cold for a leisurely stroll."

"Not outside then. Somewhere else perhaps." Tyrion held his hand out toward the hallway. "Please," he said, inviting her to join him. He was already forming a plan, and even though it made him terribly uneasy, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Sansa crossed the room, and Tyrion stepped aside, allowing her to precede him through the doorway. She waited for him in the corridor, and Tyrion was struck by just how innocent she looked. For a moment, she looked as sweet and trusting as she had when she'd been just a girl, before she'd left for King's Landing, and Tyrion hated himself for what he was about to do. But they needed to end this, once and for all. They needed to move forward, even if moving forward meant destroying the last of the goodwill between them.

"This way, my lady," Tyrion said, leading her down the hallway toward their destination.

"Where are we going?" Sansa asked.

"You'll see. I think I know the perfect place where we can talk without being disturbed."

"We can talk in my solar without being disturbed."

"In theory, yes. But you never know when that little moppet is going to burst through the door, demanding a bedtime story. I think this is for the best. Trust me."

Sansa cast Tyrion a sidelong glance, and he knew she was reluctant to put any trust in him at all. But she held her tongue and kept pace beside him, probably because he had yet to do anything to egregiously offend her.

Tyrion led Sansa straight to the crypts. He shivered as the cool, underground air touched his skin. Or maybe it wasn't the air that made him tremble at all. Maybe it was fear.

"This is really where you want to talk?" Sansa asked as they idly walked amongst her dead ancestors.

"Yes. I think it might inspire quite the productive dialogue between us."

Sansa stopped, not far from the tomb of her beloved father. She turned and looked down at Tyrion. "Tyrion, we have to—"

He held up a hand, silencing her. "Talk. Yes, I know."

"Fix things. We can't go on like this. I know you're leaving in less than a moonturn, and I'm not asking you to stay. But before you go, we need to settle a few things between us, and I believe it would be best if we settled them sooner rather than later."

"I couldn't agree more."

"Really?" There was genuine surprise in her tone, as if she had expected him to argue with her.

"Yes, really. I think it's time we faced what's standing between us and slayed the proverbial dragon, so to speak."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

Tyrion sighed heavily. He tore his eyes away from Sansa and stared up at the statue of Ned Stark, cursing himself ten kinds of a fool. He knew he was going to pay for what he was about to do, but he'd thought long and hard about it, and he could see no other way out of their predicament. He knew Sansa was going to hate him when it was all over, but she already hated him, and it was time he knew the truth.

"I want you to do something for me," Tyrion said, unable to keep his voice from trembling. His entire body had suddenly gone numb, and he felt like he was falling into an abyss from which he could never return.

"What? What is it you want me to do?"

Tyrion turned and stared up at Sansa again. She looked concerned, curious, but not the least bit angry. There was a softness in her eyes that he knew he was going to miss once he answered her question, but he'd come too far to turn back now.

"You want me to believe that Eddard is my son, don't you?"

Sansa seemed momentarily stunned by the question, but quickly recovered. "Of course, I do. You've known that from the start."

"And you know that, for my own sick, twisted reasons, I can't take you at your word."

Sansa looked away, staring off into the distance. "Can't or won't?"

"Can't. I wish that I could, Sansa. I truly wish that I could. But you don't understand—"

"I do understand." She looked at him again, a hardness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "You're a coward."

Tyrion exhaled a sigh of relief, having expected far worse. "A coward and a villain. You have no idea why I brought you here, do you?"

Sansa's eyes darted around the vaulted room as if she expected to be set upon by unknown assailants. When she saw that there was no immediate danger, her eyes locked on Tyrion again. "Why did you bring me here? I want the truth."

"I brought you here because I want to end this as much as you do. I want to believe your truth, Sansa Stark. I want to believe it with all my heart."

"Then take me at my word."

Tyrion cringed inwardly, wishing she had asked him for anything else. "I'd like to," he said, "I would really like to, but I can't. I'm sorry, Sansa. You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Then what do you want from me?"

Tyrion's heart skipped a beat. He stared up at his wife – his wife, who was so kind and so trusting – and tried to gather up the courage to say the words. "I want you to swear to me that Eddard is my son."

Sansa's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I swear it. Of course, I swear it."

"On your father's bones."

Sansa stared at Tyrion, a coldness in her eyes that chilled him to the core. He could see the anger boiling beneath the surface of her calm exterior. Her father meant the world to her. She had stood right beside him as Joffrey had ordered his execution, as his head had been severed from his body. She had watched him die, the pain and shock so violent that she had fainted on the spot. She had adored her father, worshipped him as every girl should worship the man who had given her life. Now, Ned Stark slept silently beneath Winterfell, in what was supposed to be eternal peace, but Tyrion was asking Sansa to jeopardize that peace, to risk her father's eternal soul for the sake of his cowardice.

Sansa's eyes bored into Tyrion, and he began to squirm on his feet. The words had already been spoken, and he couldn't take them back, no matter how much he wanted to. There was hatred in her eyes, and disgust, and it wounded Tyrion deeply, even though he knew he had brought it upon himself.

Tyrion forced himself to speak, desperate to mitigate some of the damage he had caused. "I realize—"

"How dare you?" Sansa spat, cutting him off before he could get any further. "How dare you? Is this why you brought me here? So I could lay my hands on my father's tomb and swear to the old gods and the new that Eddard is your son? Is that how little you think of me? Is that how little you care about my feelings?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, not at all."

"How could you do this? How could you think this was the answer to all our problems?"

"I . . . I didn't think," he stammered. "I mean . . . I did, but I couldn't think of any other way."

Sansa turned away from him then, her eyes settling on the statue of Ned Stark. Even in the shadowy torchlight, Tyrion could see that she was trembling.

"My father was a great man," Sansa said. "He would have been horrified to hear you ask me such a thing. My father," her voice broke on a sob, "my father wanted me to marry a man who was worthy of me, a man who was brave and gentle and strong. He did not want me to marry a coward."

"Sansa, I—"

"I hate you, Tyrion Lannister. At this moment, I truly hate you. What you've asked of me is crueler than any threat Joffrey ever made, any lie Littlefinger ever told. My family means more to me than anything in this world. You know that. And here you are, offering to give me what I've always wanted, if only I will betray my father."

"I'm not asking you to betray him. If Eddard is my trueborn son, there will be no betrayal in your oath."

Sansa looked at Tyrion again. There was a fire in her eyes that he had never seen before, and suddenly, he had no doubt that in a fight between a direwolf and a lion, the direwolf would always win.

"Yes, you are," she practically hissed. "Because it doesn't matter if I speak the truth when I swear my vow. I will be swearing on my father's body, on his soul. He has not been at peace for very long, and you are asking me to disturb his eternal rest. And for what? To appease your vanity? To convince you that Eddard is yours, even though you intend to leave anyway?"

For a fleeting moment, Tyrion wondered if Sansa was reluctant to do as he'd asked because she simply couldn't. He knew she could never swear a lie on her father's dead body, and perhaps what that really meant was that Eddard wasn't his son after all. But Tyrion couldn't say that. He feared that if he even hinted at it, Sansa would strike him. He had never seen her temper get violent, but suddenly, he didn't doubt that it could.

"I'm sorry that I even suggested it," Tyrion replied, not knowing what else to say. "I knew you would hate me for it, but I could see no other way."

Sansa laughed bitterly. "You really are a sad little man, aren't you? You're so miserable and jaded that you honestly believe that there isn't any good left in this world. You honestly believe that everyone is as selfish and dishonorable as you are. But you're wrong. No matter how much you want it to be true, you're wrong. And it's sad that the only way you can believe that there is any good left in this world is by asking someone else to swear a vow on the bones of their father. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, would you swear on the bones of your mother that I am the only woman you have bedded since we were wed?"

The air rushed from Tyrion's lungs, and he suddenly felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He stared up at Sansa, struggling to cope with the crippling pain her words had inflicted upon him. Even though he had never known his mother, he had always held her memory sacred. He couldn't imagine swearing an oath on her corpse any more than Sansa could imagine swearing one on her father's. And yet, that is exactly what he had asked her to do.

"Well?" Sansa said when he didn't answer. "Would you?"

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to figure out a way to talk himself out of the situation. But there was no way out. The truth was, there hadn't been anyone but Sansa since they'd been wed, but just because it was true, didn't mean that he wanted to swear it on the bones of Joanna Lannister. "I . . . I would rather not."

"Of course, because you're just as much a liar as I always thought you were."

"No, because I have the same problem you have with the prospect of disrupting your father's eternal sleep. I don't want my mother to hate me more than she already does."

Tyrion thought he saw a hint of sympathy in Sansa's eyes, or maybe it was pity, he wasn't quite sure. Whatever it was, it wasn't hatred, and that, at least, was a start.

"I'm sure your mother doesn't hate you," Sansa replied, a slight edge to her voice. "It's hard for a mother to hate her own child, even if giving him life meant losing her own."

"Well, it's nice that you think so—"

"I do. And which one of us has more experience being a mother? You or I?"

Tyrion refused to concede the point, even though he knew Sansa was right. He tore his eyes away from her and gazed awkwardly about the cavernous room, suddenly unsure of where they could go from here. "So, what do we do now?"

"I don't know."

"I suppose we could just agree to trust each other and pretend all of this never happened," Tyrion said, looking up at Sansa again.

Sansa's expression darkened. "No, I don't think that we can."

"And why not? If we both have the same problem, maybe it's only fair that we give each other the benefit of the doubt."

Sansa shook her head. "No. This isn't about you and me anymore. This is about Eddard. You can stand here and tell me that you agree to believe me, but all you'll really be agreeing to is pretending, pretending to believe what you think is a lie. And that's not good enough."

"So, what then?" Tyrion asked. "Do you want me to go? I can go sooner rather than later. I need not stay at Winterfell another day, another moment. I can get a room in the winter town and wait for Jaime and Brienne to leave."

Sansa's eyes hardened on Tyrion, and he held his breath, dreading whatever it was she was about to say next.

"I don't want my son to spend the rest of his life under a cloud of suspicion. I know that there's nothing I can do about the gossip and the whispers that already follow him. The Bastard of Winterfell they call him. I've heard it more times than I care to count. But it's one thing for the nameless masses to believe that my son is illegitimate. It's another thing entirely for his father to believe it."

"Sansa, if I could—"

Sansa turned away from him then and moved closer to Ned Stark's tomb. She stood beside the stone effigy of her father and laid her hand on his final resting place. Then, she turned to look at Tyrion again. "I loved my father, more than anything. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him, not a night that I don't see him in my dreams. He was the most honorable man I have ever known, and I would rather die than disgrace his memory by swearing a lie on his bones."

"Sansa—"

"So I hope that, when I do swear my vow, you finally believe me. Because I would never, _ever _do anything to dishonor the memory of my father. Do you understand?"

Tyrion didn't know how to respond. Sansa's words had stunned him silent, and all he could do was nod his understanding.

"Good," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "Then I, Sansa Lannister, daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, swear on the bones of my father, and the bones of every other Stark who is buried here in the crypts of our ancestral home, that you are the only man who has ever shared my bed and that Eddard Lannister is your trueborn son. I swear it by the old gods and the new, by the souls of all those who have come before me and all those who will come after." She paused for a moment, just to catch her breath. "There. Do you believe me now, Tyrion Lannister?"

Tyrion couldn't speak or move or breathe. He stared up at Sansa in complete shock, his entire world suddenly crumbling around him. Eddard was his son. Eddard Lannister, the little boy he loved so much, the little boy he adored, was his trueborn son. And Sansa Stark had been faithful to him since the day they had been wed. Tyrion believed it now, all of it, though he knew it would do him little good. Although Sansa projected an air of quiet calm, he could tell that she was angry, almost violently so. She had done as he'd asked, and now, he would have to live with the consequences.

"Well?" Sansa's tone grew even colder as she waited for a response.

"I . . . I do."

"Good. I'm glad that you can finally admit what is so painfully obvious to everyone else. I'm just sorry that it was at the expense of the last of my good opinion of you."

Sansa's words hurt, more than Tyrion had expected them to. He wanted to say something to make things better, but there was nothing left to say. The damage was already done.

"I think it would be best," Sansa said, "if you removed yourself from Winterfell sooner rather than later. I have no desire to ever see your face again."

Sansa's hand slipped from her father's tomb, and she walked away, leaving Tyrion alone with his shame.

Tyrion didn't even turn to watch her go. He had just gained the two things he had wanted most in this life – a faithful wife, a loving son – and lost both in the same instant, all because his fear had been stronger than his faith.

Tyrion stood there, listening to Sansa's footsteps fade into the distance. He could feel Ned Stark's cold, dead eyes staring down at him in condemnation. Now, Tyrion wished that he had taken Sansa at her word when he'd had the chance. He had lost her trust and her good opinion, and he knew there was no way to ever get them back.

When Tyrion was certain that Sansa was gone, he finally turned away from Ned Stark's tomb and headed back to his chamber. He needed to collect his things and leave Winterfell before morning.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-six

By the time Sansa reached her bedchamber, every nerve in her body was trembling. Although she had somehow managed to hold back the tears as she'd retreated from the crypts, the moment she was alone, she collapsed onto her bed and burst into uncontrollable sobs.

Never in her life had Sansa imagined doing anything as blasphemous as swearing an oath on her father's bones, and yet, that was exactly what it had taken to get Tyrion to finally acknowledge that Eddard was his son. Even now, Sansa wasn't sure that it had been worth it. Instead of feeling vindicated, she felt hollow inside, empty. She felt like she had just betrayed every Stark who had ever lived, even though there had been no falsehood in her vow. Her ancestors had been interred beneath Winterfell so that they could find eternal peace. They had not been laid to rest there to be used as pawns in petty quarrels between mistrustful spouses. Sansa knew that her father would be ashamed of her if he knew what she had done, but she'd done what she'd had to do to protect Eddard.

Even though Eddard was half Lannister, he was also half Stark. And although Sansa loved her mother and father with all her heart, she loved Eddard more. She couldn't help it. He was her son, and she loved him more than anything else in all the world. As far as Sansa was concerned, Eddard deserved the respect and recognition that was rightfully his as the heir to Winterfell, and she had done the only thing she could do to secure his legitimacy in his father's eyes.

Sansa turned onto her side and curled up into a little ball, staring blankly at the fire in the hearth. The night had not ended at all as she had planned. She had asked Tyrion to stay behind after dinner because she had wanted to talk. Although she had never expected to convince him that Eddard was his son, she had hoped that they might at least be able to find some common ground. After all, Winterfell still needed a second heir, and Tyrion was Sansa's only hope of conceiving another child.

But things had not gone at all as planned, and now, Tyrion was preparing to leave Winterfell and Sansa would never see him again. Of course, she had been the one who'd told him to go, but that didn't make the pain any easier to bear. As the anger began to subside and the heartache took over, Sansa suddenly didn't know how she was going to let him go.

She was such a stupid girl. All the tragedies she had suffered, all the years of misery she had endured, had not changed that in the least. She still believed in fairytales and true love and all that nonsense. Despite her resolve to grow up and leave such frivolities behind, every poem she had ever read, every song she had ever heard, still played endlessly in her heart. And she still loved Tyrion Lannister, even though she knew that made her a fool.

Sansa cried until there were no more tears to shed. She lay still and silent in her bed, waiting for sleep to claim her, when the door suddenly creaked open. Sansa held her breath as she listened to the familiar sound of little footsteps padding across the floor. It was Eddard, come to cuddle up with her for the night. Sansa prayed that if she was still enough, he would think that she was asleep and simply go away. But he didn't. As soon as Eddard reached the bed, he climbed up onto the mattress, and Sansa instinctively turned over and pulled him into her arms. She hugged him tighter than she had ever hugged him before, a strangled sob escaping her throat.

"Don't cry, Mother. Please, don't cry."

"No, no," Sansa said as she kissed the top of his head, gently smoothing down his curls with the palm of her hand. "I'm not crying anymore." Sansa had never cried in front of Eddard before. She had always fought to remain strong in front of him, to shield him from her own frailties. But tonight, she had failed. Tonight, she couldn't pretend that her heart wasn't irrevocably broken.

"What happened?" Eddard asked, snuggling closer.

Sansa didn't know how to reply. Tyrion was leaving – gods knew, he was probably already gone – and Eddard would have to find out eventually. Sansa didn't know if it would be better for him to find out now or after Tyrion left. She feared that if she told Eddard now, he'd run from her arms and try to stop his father, and that was the last thing Sansa wanted. She wanted Tyrion to leave without incident. And once he was gone, she wanted to forget that he had ever returned to Winterfell.

"It's nothing," Sansa said, kissing Eddard's head again and closing her eyes. She inhaled his scent, taking comfort in the familiar smell of honey and vanilla and winter snow that was distinctly Eddard.

"But you never cry," Eddard argued. "Something bad must have happened." He squirmed in her arms, pulling back just enough so that he could look up at her face. "Is Father all right?"

Sansa could feel the tension in Eddard's tiny body. He was terrified that something had happened to Tyrion. He loved Tyrion every bit as much as he loved her, and if anything ever happened to him, Sansa knew that Eddard would never recover. She had wanted to avoid talking about Tyrion, but Eddard had just made that impossible.

"Your father is fine," Sansa said, lightly stroking the hair at the base of Eddard's skull. "But he will be leaving Winterfell very soon, I'm afraid."

"Leaving? Why is he leaving?"

The answer to that question was far beyond the comprehension of a child, so Sansa did her best to explain as simply as she could. "He's going to be spending some time in the winter town before he goes to Casterly Rock with Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne. You can visit him in town if you like. I will make sure that someone takes you there every day, I promise."

"Are we going to Casterly Rock with him?"

The breath hitched in Sansa's throat as she stared down at Eddard, his eyes full of hope. Until that moment, no one had told him that there was even a possibility that Tyrion might not be staying at Winterfell. Sansa hadn't meant to tell him this way, but the damage was already done, and she could do nothing but forge ahead.

"No, my love," she said softly, "we're not going with him."

"But why?" It was almost a whine.

"Because your father is the Lord of Winterfell, and sometimes, duty takes the Lord of Winterfell far from home. Your grandfather left Winterfell when he was called by King Robert to be Hand of the King. He didn't want to go, but he had no choice. It was his duty."

"Is that why Father's leaving again? Does he have a duty to the king?"

Sansa wished she could say yes. She wished that she could give Eddard some truly noble reason for why his father was abandoning him for the second time in his short life. But she couldn't. She could tell Eddard half-truths, imply that Tyrion's intentions were honorable, but she couldn't lie to him outright. He deserved better than that, even if he was still a child. "No, it isn't that," Sansa answered. "But he does need to go to Casterly Rock. It is his home, after all, and he hasn't been there since long before you were born."

"I don't want him to leave," Eddard said, tears starting to pool in his eyes. "I don't want him to ever leave again."

"I know, dear heart. I know." Sansa pulled Eddard close again, cradling his head against her chest, hoping to ease his pain. "I don't want him to go either."

And as much as it hurt Sansa to admit it, that was the truth. Even though she was furious with Tyrion, she didn't truly want him to go. She knew that when he finally left Winterfell, he'd be taking a piece of her heart with him. Sansa didn't know how she was ever going to forgive Tyrion for what he had done that night, but she didn't know how she was going to live without him either.

Eddard began to cry in Sansa's arms, and her heart broke anew with each shuddering sob. She prayed that he would fall asleep quickly and forget his pain. She was sorry that she hadn't been more guarded with her own feelings. Now, she wished that she had locked the door when she'd first entered the room so that Eddard wouldn't have found her in such a dreadful state.

Eventually, Eddard's sobs faded away and he finally drifted off to sleep. Sansa lay there holding him for the longest time, trying to figure out what she could do to make things right. She couldn't face Tyrion again. She didn't want to face him again. She was still angry, and she knew that if they tried to talk, even for Eddard's sake, they'd just get into another argument, perhaps worse than the last. No, there was nothing Sansa could do to fix what was broken between her and Tyrion, and it was best to just accept that fact and do what little she could to comfort Eddard in his grief.

Sansa was just nodding off to sleep when there was an unexpected knock at the door. It jolted her awake, and she lay there very still, worried that it might be Tyrion. He had no reason to visit her, of course, but what if he was at the door? What would she say? What would she do?

Sansa held her breath, unable to speak. Suddenly, the door opened, and a small figure entered the room. Much to Sansa's disappointment, it was Arya, not Tyrion.

"Do you know where Eddard—?" Arya caught sight of the little boy in Sansa's arms, answering her own question. "Oh, I see you do." She closed the door behind her, not waiting for an invitation, and approached the bed.

Sansa knew her sister could see the red rims around her eyes, the tearstains on her cheeks. There was no way to hide the fact that she'd been crying, no matter how much she wanted to.

"What did he do?" Arya asked. There was no need to clarify who _he_ was.

"He's leaving Winterfell in the morning," Sansa said, her voice flat. "Or maybe tonight. Maybe he's already gone. I don't know."

Arya's eyes hardened. "Why?"

_Why? _That was a very good question, wasn't it? And certainly one Sansa didn't want to answer. "Does it really matter why?"

Arya's left hand instinctively moved to her hip, where she normally kept Needle sheathed by her side, and Sansa knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Yes, it matters," Arya replied. "And either you're going to tell me or Tyrion is going to tell me. Those are your only options."

Sansa looked down at Eddard. He was sleeping peacefully now, and she knew that if she and Arya continued this discussion, he wouldn't stay asleep for long. So she gently removed her arms from around him and slipped from the bed, wanting to speak with Arya in private.

"Come with me," Sansa said as she moved toward the door to her sitting room.

Arya followed without a word of protest, but as soon as they were alone, she said, "Well? Are you going to tell me or is Tyrion?"

"I asked him to leave."

Arya's eyes narrowed on Sansa in genuine confusion. It was the first time Sansa had seen an uncertain look in her sister's eyes in more years than she could remember. Arya always seemed to know everything that happened at Winterfell before anyone else. The fact that she was confused now gave Sansa an odd sense of satisfaction.

"You asked him to leave?"

"Yes, I did."

Sansa skirted around Arya and moved toward the center of the room, lowering herself down onto one of the sofas.

Arya followed, sitting directly across from Sansa. As soon as she was settled, she asked, "Why?"

Sansa didn't have a better answer this time than she'd had the time before. "Because I'm ready for him to be gone."

Arya's demeanor instantly changed. Suddenly, she looked at Sansa as if she understood, with perfect clarity, exactly what was going on. "So, it worked? You're with child then?"

"What?" Sansa was startled by the question. "No, no, that isn't it."

"Then, what is it? Because until a few days ago, you were dreading the idea of Tyrion leaving for Casterly Rock. What changed? Did you find him fucking one of your handmaidens? I know he did that in King's Landing, but I didn't think he was doing it here."

Sansa's cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the crude suggestion. "No," she said firmly. "Nothing like that."

"Then what is it? Because, for the life of me, I can't understand why you would suddenly tell him to leave unless he had done something truly unforgivable. As I said before, one of you is going to tell me what happened, and for Tyrion's sake, it would be better if it were you. Because, if I have to ask Tyrion, it's going to be at the end of a sword."

Sansa didn't want to tell Arya what had happened. She knew that Arya would be horrified, that she'd feel that Sansa had disgraced their father's memory and that Tyrion was to blame. The surest way to get Arya to shove Needle through Tyrion's heart was to tell her the truth about what had happened that night. Sansa was tempted to concoct a convincing lie, just to protect him, but Arya killed the impulse even before it was fully formed.

"And don't even think about lying to me," Arya said, practically reading Sansa's mind. "I'll know if you're lying. I always do."

Sansa knew there was only one way she was going to be able to tell Arya the truth, and that was if she had her word beforehand that no harm would come to Tyrion. "I will tell you the truth . . ." Sansa began.

Arya leaned forward as if keen to hear her sister's confession. "Yes?"

"But only if you swear not to harm Tyrion."

Arya laughed. "Well, if that's the case," she said, rising from the sofa, "it must be pretty bad, which means I'm better off asking him. At least, if I ask Tyrion, I won't have to make some silly promise about not slitting his throat or cutting off his cock."

Arya turned to leave, but Sansa couldn't let her go. She reached out and grabbed Arya's wrist, halting her retreat.

"Please, don't," Sansa pleaded. "Sit, and I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

Arya eyed Sansa with suspicion, but she sat down again without a word. Sansa let go of her wrist and settled back on the sofa. She nervously fluffed out the folds of her gown, trying her best not to panic.

Sansa decided to start at the beginning. She knew that Arya wanted her to get to the point as quickly as possible, but she needed time to work up to it. "I wanted to talk to Tyrion tonight after dinner. I wanted to see if there was some way we could settle things between us once and for all. So I asked him to stay behind after everyone else left, but he refused. He said he wanted to go for a walk instead. So I went with him, and before I knew what was happening, we were down in the crypts."

Arya arched a brow in question but didn't say a word.

"I didn't know why he'd brought me there. At first, I thought it was just because it was somewhere private. But it wasn't that. He brought me there because . . . because he wanted me to do something for him."

Arya's right hand twitched in her lap, and Sansa knew she was just itching to get her fingers on Needle. "What . . . what did that Lannister bastard want you to do?"

"He said he wanted to take my word for it that Eddard was his son, but that he couldn't, that my word would never be good enough for him."

"Yes. He's said that before."

Sansa nodded. "So he found another way to be certain of the truth."

Arya inched toward the edge of her seat, ready to bolt at any moment. Sansa knew that as soon as she told Arya what Tyrion had done, she'd be off the sofa and out the door. She'd hunt Tyrion down and slit his throat before Sansa could do anything to stop her.

"Go on," Arya urged.

"He—" Sansa stopped, inhaling a steadying breath. Fear threatened to overpower her, but she fought through it. "He said that he would believe me, truly believe me, if I swore it on Father's bones."

Arya did exactly what Sansa had expected her to do. She was on her feet and halfway to the door before Sansa could say another word.

"Arya, don't!" Sansa chased after her, stopping Arya just before she reached the door.

Arya turned on her heel, her demeanor calm, but her eyes hot with bloodlust. "I'm going to kill him."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. He disgraced Father. He disgraced you. The fact that he could even ask such a thing is proof enough that he is not fit to be the Lord of Winterfell. I hope you spit in his face the moment he suggested it. If you'd like, I can lend you my dagger and you can kill him yourself."

Sansa shook her head. "No, Arya. There will be no retribution, no revenge. I won't harm him, and neither will you."

"You can't stop me."

"No, you're right. I can't. But if you're going to kill Tyrion for dishonoring Father's memory, then you're going to have to kill me too."

Arya's eyes narrowed on Sansa, searching her face. "And why would I have to kill you too, Sansa? Tell me, what have you done to dishonor our father's memory?"

"You know what I've done."

Arya's skin flushed red with fury. Her hands curled into tight fists, and Sansa knew she was trying very hard not to strike her. Sansa hadn't seen Arya lose her temper since they were children. She was always so stoic, so calm and collected. But not tonight. Tonight, Sansa had managed to breach all her defenses, to move her to the kind of anger and rage that could only be caused by a personal betrayal.

"You stupid cunt," Arya spat. "What the fuck were you thinking? How could you? I know Tyrion Lannister means the world to you, but I never thought he meant more to you than your own family. You disgraced Father, and Mother, and every Stark who is buried down in those crypts. And for what? To appease your Lannister husband?"

"No," Sansa said softly, unwilling to let Arya's anger infect her. "To protect Eddard."

"How? How does any of this protect Eddard? Just because Tyrion now believes that Eddard is his son – he does believe that Eddard is his son, doesn't he?"

"He says he does."

"Then explain to me how this changes anything. Eddard is the legitimate heir to Winterfell, whether Tyrion Lannister believes it or not. Just because Tyrion has finally taken his head out of his ass long enough to acknowledge the truth, doesn't mean that anything has changed. So tell me, dear sister, how does this protect Eddard? How?"

"Eddard has a right to have a relationship with his father, to be acknowledged by him, to have his legitimacy unquestioned by the man who gave him life. I was not about to let him spend the rest of his life denied by his own father. It doesn't matter what you think he needs or what I would have preferred to do. Tyrion needed to know that Eddard is his trueborn son, for Eddard's sake. And as much as it pained me to do so, I had no choice but to take the opportunity to prove the truth when I had the chance. I know I'll regret it for the rest of my life. I know Mother and Father have never been more ashamed of me. But I did it for Eddard, not for myself. And I would do it again if I had to."

"You're right," Arya said. "I should kill you both. It's a good thing I left Needle in my chamber. If I had a sword right now, I would have already ended your life. You don't deserve to rule Winterfell, any more than Tyrion does. In that way, I suppose you're perfect for each other."

Arya's words cut Sansa to her very soul. For better or for worse, she and Tyrion were the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, and nothing was going to change that, short of Arya slitting both their throats.

Sansa tried to reason with her sister. "I know that you're angry—"

"Oh," Arya said slowly, "you don't know what angry is yet. I'm going to tell Jon what you've done, and he's going to suddenly find a reason to call your treacherous husband back to King's Landing, and that will be an end to it."

Sansa's heart thudded against her ribs. "You don't mean that."

"Of course, I do. Tyrion Lannister is never going to make it to Casterly Rock. I'll see to that. And once Jon is through with him, he won't be Lord of Winterfell either."

"As long as Tyrion is my husband, Jon won't strip him of his title."

"I'm not talking about stripping him of his title," Arya replied coolly. "Do you forget, Lady Lannister, that your husband was convicted of regicide? He still has a death sentence waiting for him, even with a new monarch on the throne."

Sansa's whole body began to tremble. Although she and Jon had grown close after he'd returned from the Wall, Sansa was still not as close to him as Arya was. If Jon was going to listen to only one of them, it was always going to be Arya. She could still wrap him around her little finger without any effort at all. If she wanted Tyrion executed, Tyrion would be executed, no matter how much Sansa protested.

"I see that my threat troubles you, my lady. Could it be that you still harbor affection for your traitor husband?"

"Tyrion is no traitor."

Arya shrugged. "He murdered his own king."

"No, he didn't. And you know that better than anyone. Bran said it wasn't true."

"But he was still convicted, and he does admit to murdering the king's Hand. I scarcely see a difference."

"Arya, please," Sansa pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion. "Don't do this."

"Why? You obviously care more about your Lannister husband than you do about us Starks. Why shouldn't I drive the lion from the wolves' den? Give me one good reason."

"Because I love him. You know I do. I love him, and I don't want him gone from this world. Please, Arya. I've already lost too much. Don't take this away from me too. Please."

By the time Sansa finished, there were tears streaming down her cheeks, and she was afraid that Arya was going to laugh at her. But she didn't. Instead, Arya stared at her intently, as if she was silently warring with herself.

"You said that Tyrion believes that Eddard is his son," Arya said in a hard voice. "Is that true?"

"Yes." Sansa nodded.

"And does Eddard know about any of this?"

"He knows that Tyrion is leaving. I had no choice but to tell him."

Arya tore her eyes away from Sansa, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Fuck."

"I know It's going to be difficult for him," Sansa said, "but he'll get through it. We both will."

Arya laughed. It was a cruel, bitter sound. "And why should he have to get through it?" she asked, finally turning to look at Sansa again. "Why should he have to go through any of this? He waited his whole damn life for his father to return to him, and then, when he finally got his wish, you and Tyrion fucked it up. What is wrong with you?"

Sansa wanted to cry again, but she didn't. She held her breath and met Arya's gaze, knowing that she deserved her share of the blame. She and Tyrion had made a mess of things, and Eddard had gotten caught in the middle. He had cried himself to sleep that night because they couldn't make their marriage work. Sansa wanted better for her son. She wanted him to have a happy life, surrounded by people who loved him, including his father.

"Apparently, there's a lot wrong with me," Sansa answered.

Arya sighed heavily, some of the fight finally draining out of her. She unclenched her fists and shook her head. "I know I shouldn't say this, but I really don't think I have any choice."

"Please, Arya, just let Tyrion go. There's no point in getting revenge. It isn't worth it. I've given him up. Just let him go."

"We both know I can't do that," Arya replied. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Arya—"

"You and Tyrion have made a mess of everything, and while I could never forgive either one of you for my own sake, I have no choice but to forgive you for Eddard's. All Eddard has ever wanted was to know his father, to have him here by his side. And now that Tyrion finally believes that Eddard is his trueborn son, I'm not going to let either one of you take that away from him. I don't want Tyrion to stay at Winterfell, Sansa. Don't mistake me. If it were my choice, Tyrion would be headed to King's Landing to face his fate. But it's not my choice. Not really. I love Eddard more than I hate Tyrion, and I can't stand by and watch either one of you hurt that boy anymore. You, Lady Lannister, are going to go to your husband's chamber right now and command him to stay. For Eddard's sake."

Sansa was stunned by Arya's words. "No. I can't do that," she said, her voice trembling.

"Of course you can. You will go to him and tell him to stay. If you don't, I'll be the one to do it, and we both know you don't want that."

No, Sansa definitely did not want that. She didn't trust Arya to be alone with Tyrion at that moment, but she didn't know how to face him herself. The truth was, even though she was still hurt and angry, she didn't want him to leave Winterfell. But what choice did she have? She had already banished him to the winter town, and she was certain he was already gone.

When Sansa didn't answer, Arya said, "Tell me, Sansa, what will the villagers think if the Lord of Winterfell spends the next fortnight sleeping at the inn instead of in his own bed? What will that mean for Winterfell and for you?"

Sansa hadn't considered that. Yes, it would look quite suspicious if Tyrion abandoned Winterfell to suddenly go live in the village. It was one thing for him to travel to Casterly Rock, that was his ancestral home, but it was another thing entirely for him to be living in the village when the castle was only a short distance away. Suddenly, Sansa had the excuse she needed to visit Tyrion and rescind her earlier demand.

"All right, I'll go," Sansa said. "But I make no promises. If Tyrion wants to leave, there's nothing I can do to make him stay."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," Arya said knowingly.

Sansa didn't even dignify that with a response. Instead, she just turned away from Arya and quickly left the room.

As Sansa made her way to Tyrion's chamber, her limbs shook and her heart raced. Despite what Arya thought, Sansa wasn't at all prepared to face Tyrion again, but she couldn't allow him to leave Winterfell without causing more gossip. For better or for worse, she had no choice but to ask him to stay.

By the time Sansa reached Tyrion's door, she was no calmer than she had been when she'd left her solar. She inhaled a girding breath and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. She knew she looked dreadful, but there was no time to make herself presentable.

It took a great deal of courage, but finally, Sansa raised her hand and knocked on the door. She waited for Tyrion to answer, but there was no reply.

A knot twisted in the pit of Sansa's stomach, and her hand trembled as she knocked a second time. Again, there was no answer, and finally, she reached for the door handle and pushed her way inside.

The chamber was dark, except for a few hazy streams of moonlight pouring in from the unshuttered windows. There was no fire smoldering in the hearth, no candles burning. All was still and dark and quiet.

Sansa exhaled a shaky breath and moved farther into the room. She approached the bed with careful steps, scanning the near-darkness for any sign of Tyrion, but the bed was empty, the furs undisturbed.

Sansa turned around and sank down onto the edge of the mattress, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She suddenly felt like crying again, but she fought back the tears. She stared out into the shadowy room, wishing things were different, wishing that she and Tyrion had never fought in the first place. Sansa knew she had no choice now but to return to her own chamber and wait out the night. In the morning, she would go to the winter town and pray that Tyrion was at the inn. Because if he wasn't, she didn't know where to find him, and she feared she might never see him again.


	28. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-seven

Tyrion groaned as he turned onto his side, his head pounding with the effort. He could feel the morning sun beating mercilessly against his closed eyelids, and he slung an arm across his eyes to shield himself from the assault. He was more asleep than awake, and he very much wanted to stay that way.

Tyrion couldn't remember everything that had happened the night before. Oh, he remembered Sansa banishing him from Winterfell quite clearly. But after that, everything was hazy. He knew he'd drank too much, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember where he had spent the night. He feared the worst, and he was too much of a coward to open his eyes and face the truth.

A warm body snuggled up close to Tyrion, and he groaned again, silently cursing himself. He couldn't believe that after five long years of being faithful to Sansa, he had thrown it all away in a single drunken night. He knew that Sansa didn't care about his fidelity anymore, but he cared, and he would never forgive himself if he had broken his marriage vows.

Tyrion tried to pull away, tried to put some distance between himself and his bedmate, but he could barely move. He lowered his arm and attempted to propel himself onto his back when something wet suddenly licked his cheek.

Tyrion cracked his eyes open just wide enough to catch a glimpse of a long, furry snout nuzzling his face. He exhaled a relieved sigh, his lids falling closed again as he realized that he had passed out in the kennels and not in some whore's bed.

Of course, it wasn't the first time Tyrion had awoken to find himself surrounded by dogs. The first time he had visited Winterfell, he had also passed out in the kennels, but now, there was even less dignity in it. This time, he wasn't just some visiting lord who couldn't hold his drink. He was the Lord of Winterfell, and he was a disgrace to both his title and his family.

When Tyrion had left the crypts the night before, he'd had every intention of heading into the winter town to find himself a room, but after some thought, he'd realized that was the worst thing he could possibly do. There was no legitimate reason for the Lord of Winterfell to take a room in town. If he did, it would look more than a little suspicious and the Stark bannermen might begin to question his loyalty once again.

So instead of heading into town, Tyrion had snuck down to the kitchens, stolen two flagons of wine – because that was all his stunted arms could carry – and had gone off in search of a nice warm place to get drunk. He hadn't started out in the kennels, but apparently, he had somehow made his way there during the night.

Had Tyrion had a choice, he would have been perfectly content to stay right where he was and sleep the day away. But it would be scandalous for the Lord of Winterfell to be found sleeping with the dogs, and the last thing Winterfell needed was another scandal.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally managed to turn over onto his back. The instant he opened his eyes, the bright morning sun hit him like a hammer and he winced in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it only made his head throb more, and he was forced to open his eyes again. Tyrion had no idea how he was supposed to even sit up. He was sure that if he tried, he'd just get dizzy and collapse.

For a moment, Tyrion stared up at the beams above him, wondering how bad it would be if he just closed his eyes and died right there. Of course, if he did, everyone would be much better off, particularly Sansa. She could remarry and forget all about him, and Eddard could have a father who wasn't a drunken coward.

If left to his own devices, Tyrion would have stayed like that forever, but a familiar voice suddenly broke through his thoughts, disturbing his peace.

"Well, it took you long enough, didn't it?" Jaime said, quite clearly amused. "I thought you were going to sleep the day away. Actually, at first, I thought you were dead. But then, I remembered just how fond you are of drink, and I realized you were just unconscious."

Tyrion couldn't see Jaime, but he knew he was close, probably standing just outside the kennels. Tyrion turned his head, his vision blurring with the movement. When his eyes finally refocused, he saw Jaime sitting on the edge of the fence that ran around the pen, an infuriating smirk on his face.

"I'm so glad you find this amusing," Tyrion said, his voice hoarse.

Jaime's grin widened. "Oh, I do. I thought your days of sleeping with nameless bitches were over, but I guess I was wrong."

Tyrion pushed himself up into a sitting position, groaning with the effort. A wave of dizziness instantly washed over him, and he swayed a little to one side. "Maybe my days of drinking should be over too. But then, what would I have to live for?"

The smile on Jaime's face faded, and there was suddenly a serious cast to his eyes. "All joking aside, what are you doing here? You're the Lord of Winterfell, and if anyone sees you—"

Tyrion held up a hand, cutting him off. "I know, I know. I'll lose what little respect they have for me."

"I think people respect you a lot more than you realize. Not that you necessarily deserve it right now. I honestly doubt that Ned Stark ever woke up in the kennels."

"I doubt Ned Stark ever did a lot of the things I've done." Tyrion lifted a hand and rubbed the base of his skull. Talking was making his head throb, and he was desperate to make the pain go away. "If only Ned Stark could see me now."

Jaime glanced out toward the yard as if to reassure himself that they were still alone. When he looked at Tyrion again, he asked, "Why are you here, anyway? What the hell happened to you last night?"

"My wife happened. Or rather, I happened to her. I don't know. It's all a blur."

Jaime grinned again, and he looked too charming by half. Suddenly, Tyrion felt even more wretched, staring up at his beautiful brother when he felt like complete shit.

"Somehow, I doubt Lady Lannister is that adventurous," Jaime said with a laugh.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Tyrion's mind was barely functioning, and if his brother was inferring something, he simply couldn't fathom what it was.

"Well, it's just, she strikes me as more of an in-the-bed type of girl than an in-the-kennels-with-the-dogs type of girl."

Tyrion scowled, finally understanding his brother's meaning. "Sansa didn't bring me out here to do what you're suggesting," he said. "We had a fight last night – a big one – and she demanded that I leave Winterfell and never return."

Jaime's brow furrowed with concern. "I can't believe that."

"Well, believe it. Because it's true."

Tyrion broke Jaime's gaze and looked about the pen. There were at least half a dozen dogs lying about in various stages of sleep. Tyrion wondered how the hell he was supposed to get on his feet and make it through the gate.

"What did you do to her?" Jaime asked, his eyes trained on Tyrion.

"You don't want to know."

"Oh, I think I do." Jaime slid off the fence and walked to the gate. He laid his hands on either side of it and leaned forward, trapping Tyrion inside. "If you don't want to spend the rest of the morning in that pen, you're going to tell me what you did."

Tyrion stared up at his brother, every last hint of amusement gone from Jaime's eyes.

"Well?" Jaime prompted when Tyrion stayed silent.

Tyrion laughed, the sound strangled from his throat. "Well, let's just say that I no longer have any doubt that Eddard is my trueborn son."

"What . . . what did you do?"

"I took Sansa down to the crypts and made her swear it on the bones of her beloved father. And now, she never wants to see me again."

"And I don't blame her. What if she'd made you do the same thing to Mother?"

"Yes, well, exactly," Tyrion replied, nearly stumbling over the words. "Look, I didn't say that I blame her. You asked what happened, and I told you. That's all. Now, would you mind helping me out of here? I don't think I can manage it myself."

Jaime stared at Tyrion far longer than necessary, as if trying to decide whether he should help him or just let him rot. Tyrion wouldn't have blamed his brother if he'd just turned around and walked away. If their positions had been reversed, Tyrion might have done just that. But Jaime was a much better man than he was – at least these days, anyway – and Jaime eventually took pity on him and opened the gate. He stepped into the pen and offered Tyrion his hand, pulling him to his feet with hardly any effort.

Tyrion struggled to stay upright, and Jaime clamped his hand on Tyrion's shoulder to keep him steady on his feet.

"Are you all right?" Jaime asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Are you sure you can walk a straight line?"

"Well, no, not really," Tyrion answered. "But I am the Lord of Winterfell. I should at least try to present an air of dignity."

"All right, but if you fall, don't blame me."

Jaime let go of Tyrion's shoulder, and Tyrion staggered forward, almost losing his footing. He put his hands out to his sides to steady himself, and somehow, he managed to walk through the gate without falling flat on his face. His head still throbbed and his whole body ached, but at least he hadn't fallen.

Jaime followed Tyrion out into the yard. As soon as Tyrion caught sight of the Great Keep, he realized that he had no idea where the hell he was going. Sansa wanted him gone, and he feared what would happen if she found him still at Winterfell.

Tyrion stumbled to a halt, and Jaime nearly crashed into him.

"What's wrong?" Jaime asked. "About to be sick?"

"No," Tyrion said, though the very suggestion caused a wave of nausea to rise up his throat. "No, I just don't know where to go. Lady Lannister wants me gone, preferably yesterday."

"If you really want to avoid her, come back to the Guest House with me. I'm sure we can find somewhere to hide you. You're not very big, after all."

"Haha," Tyrion mocked, his head aching with the effort. "As much as I'd prefer to leave Winterfell at the moment, it's probably not in my best interest, or Sansa's, despite what she thinks. I guess I have no choice but to go with you for now."

Jaime held out his hand toward the Guest House, motioning for Tyrion to follow. They traveled no more than a few yards before Tyrion stopped dead in his tracks. Eddard and Arya were just emerging from the Great Keep, and Tyrion was instantly paralyzed the moment he saw his son.

Tyrion had seen the boy a million times before, but this time was different. This time, he wasn't seeing some other man's son. He was seeing his own son. His own trueborn son. And he felt like such a fool.

Tyrion stared at Eddard across the yard, his eyes misting with tears. Even from a distance, he could see the resemblance between them, the golden curls, the keen eyes. Tyrion had never been prouder of anything in all his life. Or loved anything more. Eddard was the greatest gift the gods had ever given him. And giving him life was the best, most admirable thing that Tyrion had ever done.

Eddard didn't see Tyrion at first, but when he did, his eyes grew wide and he raced across the yard, hurling himself into Tyrion's arms and nearly knocking him over.

Tyrion stumbled back a few paces but quickly regained his balance. His entire body was trembling, and he could feel the tears threatening to fall. He wrapped his arms around Eddard and hugged him tightly, closing his eyes and kissing the top of the little boy's head. He loved Eddard so damn much, and he didn't ever want to let him go.

"You didn't leave," Eddard cried, his words half muffled in Tyrion's chest.

"No, of course I didn't. I would never leave without saying goodbye."

"Mother said you left."

Tyrion opened his eyes and glanced at Arya. Her expression was as cool as ever, and he had no idea what she was thinking.

"Well," Tyrion said, turning his attention back to Eddard, "obviously, I didn't."

Eddard squirmed out of Tyrion's arms and looked up at him. The boy's eyes were red-rimmed, his face puffy and blotchy. He looked like he'd spent the entire morning crying.

Tyrion inhaled a sharp breath. Until that moment, he hadn't realized just how devastated Eddard would be by the news of his departure. For the first time in a long time, Tyrion was seriously considering staying at Winterfell for the rest of his days.

"Aunt Arya was taking me to the winter town," Eddard said, reaching up to wipe his nose with the back of his sleeve. "Mother said you'd gone to the winter town."

"Yes, well, that was my intention," Tyrion replied, "but my plans have changed. I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you promise?"

Tyrion's eyes flickered to Arya again. Although she hadn't said a single word, he was certain that she knew everything that had happened between him and Sansa the night before. What he didn't know was whether she wanted him to stay or whether she wanted him dead.

Tyrion looked down at Eddard again. "I promise, I will stay as long as I'm able."

"Will you take me to Casterly Rock with you when you go?"

Tyrion laughed, reaching out and playfully mussing Eddard's hair. "I don't know if I can promise that."

Eddard looked up at Jaime, his eyes round and pleading. "Can Father bring me to Casterly Rock? Please?"

Jaime smiled at Eddard in that infuriatingly charming way he had. "I would love to have you visit the Rock, but I think it would be best if you waited until you were a bit older. It's still winter, and it's a long and treacherous journey. Your mother would have my head if anything happened to you."

"But I'm a Stark," Eddard said, puffing out his chest with Stark pride. "Snow is in our blood."

"And I'd very much like for you to keep your blood in your veins and not see it spilled on the road. But I promise, when spring comes, you can visit Casterly Rock for as long as you like. And by then, you'll have at least one little cousin waiting for you. Isn't that something to look forward to?"

"I'd rather have a brother," Eddard said, looking at Tyrion again. "Will you give me one before you go?"

"As much as I would love to—"

"Your father is already working on it," Jaime answered. "If the gods are willing, maybe you'll have a baby brother come spring."

Eddard's face lit up like a bonfire, and Tyrion cast a threatening look in Jaime's direction.

"Well, it's true," Jaime argued.

"It was true, but after last night—"

"Sansa wants to see you," Arya said, interrupting the conversation.

Tyrion turned to look at her. There was still no emotion in her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked, scarcely able to believe Arya's words.

"I am. She has much to say to you, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"That's strange because, the last I heard, she never wanted to see me again."

"Oh, that's not true," Eddard interjected. "Mother was in tears because she thought you were gone. I've never seen Mother cry before."

Tyrion stared at Eddard, the boy's words said with such earnestness that Tyrion didn't quite know how to doubt them. Perhaps Eddard had simply misunderstood.

"I'm sure that's not the reason your mother was crying," Tyrion replied. "I'm sure it was just because she was angry with me."

Eddard shook his head, his golden curls bobbing all around. "No, she told me. She told me she didn't want you to go."

Tyrion's eyes darted to Arya. She raised a single brow as if to say, _I told you so_.

Tyrion was desperate to believe that Sansa wanted to see him again, that she wanted him to stay, but after what had happened between them the night before, he simply didn't know how to believe it.

When Tyrion just continued to stare, Arya said, "Are you coming?"

"How do I know this isn't a trap?"

"You don't." She turned around then and slowly began to walk away, clearly expecting Tyrion to follow.

Eddard grabbed Tyrion's hand and tried to pull him along. "Come on. Let's go see Mother."

But Arya whipped around at that very instant, stopping their advance. "Just Lord Tyrion," she said, her gaze softening for Eddard's sake. "You go with your Uncle Jaime. It's still early, and since we don't have to go into town, I'm sure he won't mind giving you your sparring lesson for the day."

Jaime moved forward, taking Eddard's free hand and leading him away from Tyrion. "Come with me. Maybe today I'll let you practice with a real sword."

Eddard's eyes widened with excitement. "Will you?"

"No, he won't," Arya said sternly. "Not if he wants to live to see another day."

"Oh, come now, Lady Arya. Surely the boy is old enough to feel the weight of steel in his hands. I thought you Starks were made of braver stuff than that."

"We are made of saner, less reckless stuff than that. And Eddard is being raised a Stark."

"Even though he's a Lannister?"

"He's a Stark, first and foremost, and that's all that matters. No blades. Understood?"

Jaime smiled at her. "All right. For now."

Arya's look grew darker, and Tyrion scowled at Jaime. Arya Stark had reason enough to hate the Lannisters. She didn't need Jaime giving her even one more reason to despise them, especially when Tyrion's life was in her hands.

"We'll see you later, Father," Eddard said as Jaime practically dragged him away. "Don't leave. Remember, you promised."

Tyrion lifted a hand in farewell. "I remember. I will see you at luncheon, I promise."

That was all it took to appease Eddard. He finally gave Jaime his full attention, and together, they headed off to their favorite spot in the training yard.

Now that they were alone, Tyrion expected Arya to say something to him, but she didn't. She just turned on her heel and started walking again. Tyrion followed after her, his mind a lot less addled than it had been when he'd first awoken. The fresh air and the startling thought that Sansa might actually want him to stay did wonders for his aching head, and he almost felt like a new man. Almost.

Tyrion didn't know where Arya was taking him, but wherever it was, he truly hoped it wasn't a trap. For a split second, he wondered if Arya had sent Eddard off with Jaime just to get him out of the way, to keep him from bearing witness to his father's execution. But Tyrion quickly dismissed the idea. The Starks would never hide their children from the realities of death. They were an earthy sort, and they took their honor and duty very seriously.

And so Tyrion followed after Arya, not knowing what fate awaited him. Either Sansa would ask him to stay, or Arya would slit his throat. Either way, Tyrion was happy that he at least knew the truth now, and that he'd gotten to see his trueborn son one more time.


	29. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-eight

Sansa was in the kitchens when Arya found her. She'd been tallying food stores, making sure that Winterfell had enough rations to make it through what was left of the winter. It was tedious work, but it was a welcome distraction from more troubling concerns.

"I found Lord Tyrion," Arya said, her tone formal. The kitchens were teeming with servants, and even Arya had to be on her best behavior since they were not alone.

Sansa froze, the quill in her hand skidding to a halt against the tally sheet. The air stilled in her lungs as she struggled to compose herself. Without sparing a glance at Arya, she began writing again, trying to pretend that she didn't care in the least. "Is he at the inn?" she asked offhandedly.

"No, he's not. In fact, I don't think he ever made it that far."

Sansa finally looked up at Arya, startled by her words. "What do you mean? Where did he spend the night?"

"One can only imagine."

Sansa scowled. There was far too much insinuation in Arya's words for her liking. Despite Tyrion's assertion that he had been faithful to her since the day they had been wed, she couldn't help but fear that he had spent the night in another woman's bed.

"Where is he now?" Sansa asked, her tone strained.

"Oh, he's waiting for you in your sitting room. I told him you wanted to talk to him."

The bright light of day had somewhat changed Sansa's feelings on the matter of Tyrion Lannister. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, and now, she felt much less vulnerable. She wasn't sure that she was ready to talk to Tyrion yet, despite Arya's insistence.

"Well," Sansa said, "if he's already waiting, he can continue to wait. I have a great deal of work to do this morning, and since Tyrion is neglecting his duties, it's even more imperative that I don't shirk mine."

"So, Lady Lannister becomes a coward in the harsh light of day, does she?"

Sansa looked around the room, hoping that no one else had heard Arya's insult. "I am no coward," Sansa replied. "I just have more important things to do this morning than chase after Tyrion Lannister. I'll see him when I'm ready and not before."

Sansa went back to her work, but Arya refused to leave. She just stood there, staring at Sansa in that unsettling way she had, not saying a word.

Sansa endured her sister's scrutiny for as long as she could before finally losing her temper. She suddenly turned angry eyes on Arya. "Do you intend to stand there all morning watching me?"

"If necessary."

Sansa exhaled a long, frustrated sigh, fighting the urge to scream. She threw her parchment and quill down onto the table in front of her and said, "Fine, I'll go see him now. Are you happy?"

"Nothing about this makes me happy."

"Well, that makes two of us."

Sansa squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, determined to project an air of dignity. "I'll be in my sitting room if anyone needs me. And don't follow me," she warned darkly. "I don't need you skulking outside the door while Tyrion and I talk."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Arya replied, not a hint of sincerity in her tone.

Sansa left the kitchens without another word to Arya. She was already trembling at the thought of facing Tyrion again. She didn't know what was going to happen when they were finally alone together. They couldn't seem to be in the same room with each other for any great length of time without arguing, and there was no reason why this encounter should be any different. Despite how badly it would hurt Eddard, Sansa was beginning to think that it might be for the best if Tyrion did leave. There would be no peace at Winterfell as long as its lord and lady continued to be at odds.

Sansa stopped outside the sitting room door and took a moment to collect herself. She looked over her shoulder, searching for any sign of Arya. The hallway appeared empty, but that didn't mean anything. Arya was a trained assassin, one of the Faceless Men. She could be hiding anywhere and Sansa would be completely oblivious to her presence. Sansa decided to pretend that Arya had stayed behind in the kitchens, rather than face the very real possibility that she was already being spied upon.

Sansa turned back toward the door and opened it without knocking. When she stepped inside, she found Tyrion standing by the hearth, his back to her. He was warming his hands by the fire, gazing into the flames as if he hadn't heard her enter the room. He looked a frightful mess. His clothes were disheveled, and there were bits of hay in his hair. Sansa didn't even want to imagine where he'd spent the night. She knew it couldn't have been any place respectable.

The moment Sansa closed the door, Tyrion whirled around as if startled by her presence. "Lady Lannister," he said, the words almost breathless.

"Lord Lannister. I thought I told you last night that I never wanted to see you again. What are you doing here now?"

A bitter laugh escaped Tyrion's throat. "Your sister told me that you wanted to see me. She promised it wasn't a trap, but I suppose I should have known better."

"Arya meddles far too much for her own good."

"I couldn't agree more."

They stared at each other for a long moment before they both looked away. The air between them was heavy with tension, and Sansa suddenly didn't know what to say. She didn't want Tyrion to go, but after everything that had happened, she knew it was for the best. Even so, there was no reason for him to leave immediately. Jaime and Brienne would be staying at Winterfell for at least another few weeks. That would give Tyrion and Eddard plenty of time to say their goodbyes and perhaps make arrangements for Eddard to visit Tyrion in the Westerlands. Because even though Tyrion and Sansa couldn't fix things between them, she had no intention of keeping her son from his father.

Sansa looked at Tyrion again. He was gazing idly about the room, clearly just as uncomfortable as she was.

"Where did you spend the night?" Sansa asked, her curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Tyrion's eyes moved to her face. He seemed startled by the question. "I know you wanted me to leave Winterfell last night, and I had every intention of doing so, but it occurred to me – rather late, actually – that it would look peculiar if the Lord of Winterfell suddenly holed himself up in the winter town. I didn't want to bring any more shame to the Stark name than I already have, so I slept in the kennels with the dogs. A more than fitting place for me, under the circumstances."

Sansa fought the urge to laugh. The idea of Tyrion spending the night in the kennels was quite comical, but they were having a serious conversation and she knew that laughing would be highly inappropriate. She pursed her lips together and waited for the impulse to pass before she finally replied, "Do you intend to take up residence there for the foreseeable future? If you do intend to stay at Winterfell until Jaime and Brienne leave, you will need somewhere suitable to sleep."

"I will sleep wherever you will grant me permission to sleep, my lady. I may be the Lord of Winterfell, but the keep is yours, and you have more right to command it than I do."

Sansa wondered what Tyrion would do if she commanded him to sleep in her bed. It was still too early to tell if she was with child, and it couldn't hurt to keep trying for a baby until Tyrion left. But Sansa was still too angry and hurt to start asking him for favors just yet.

"You may stay in your own chamber," Sansa said. "You are not the only one who has pointed out the folly of allowing the Lord of Winterfell to abandon his post for a room in the village, and I have no desire to make things worse for Winterfell or her people."

"A wise decision, my lady. I thank you. I give you my word that you will not see hide nor hair of me until I leave. I will stay out of your way and let you run Winterfell as you see fit."

"By which you mean, abandon your duties and spend your days in your chamber drinking yourself into a stupor?"

Tyrion laughed. "Well, yes, I suppose that is one way of putting it."

"You will do no such thing," Sansa replied. "As long as you remain at Winterfell, you will continue to fulfill your duties. All of them. You will not be rewarded for your bad behavior by being allowed to skirt your responsibilities. Do you understand?"

Tyrion fidgeted nervously on his feet. "But that means we will have to see each other every day, and last night, you said that you never wanted to see me again. Or had you forgotten?"

"The good of Winterfell is more important than my own personal desires. Winterfell needs a lord, and while it still has one, we're going to take advantage of it to the fullest."

Tyrion bowed his head in agreement. "If that is what you wish, I am yours to command, my lady."

"Good." Sansa held her breath for a moment, summoning up all her courage before she continued. "In that case, I command you to resume all of your former duties as the Lord of Winterfell, including your duty to produce an heir."

Tyrion looked up at her, his eyes wild with disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I am," Sansa said, inching her chin a little higher, feigning a confidence that she didn't really feel.

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm afraid that's the one thing I can't do. Ask anything else of me, and it's yours, but not that."

Tyrion couldn't have hurt Sansa more if he had tried. She knew that he didn't want her, but that didn't mean that they couldn't share a bed together just a few more times. They didn't have to talk. They didn't have to face any of the issues between them. They just had to spend some time together beneath the furs to produce a child. That was all.

"Do you find the idea of lying with me that distasteful?" Sansa snapped, her temper suddenly flaring to the surface.

"I do."

Tyrion's words struck Sansa like an arrow to the heart, and if she had been any less angry, she might have cried. "Well, I'm sorry that you find the idea of sharing my bed so abhorrent. I know I'm not quite as skilled as the women you're used to, but I thought, for the good of Winterfell, you might suffer through it."

"It has nothing to do with your skills as a lover, which are quite admirable, I might add. I don't want to share your bed because I know that you hate me, and there's no way in the Seven Hells that I'm going to bed a woman who hates me, married or not. I could lie and say it's a matter of pride, but it isn't. Despite how you feel about me, I still care for you, Sansa, and I don't want to put you through that. I don't want you to suffer the touch of a man you despise simply because you feel you have a duty to fulfill. I could never live with myself if I let you do that."

Sansa stared at Tyrion, unsettled by his words. She'd thought she had him all figured out, that she knew what he wanted and how he felt about her, but maybe she'd been wrong. Even though she had declared her hatred for him the night before, he still claimed to care about her. He had spent the night sleeping in the kennels because he'd thought it was what was best for Winterfell, because he'd thought it was what he deserved. Suddenly, Sansa realized that she didn't really know Tyrion at all. She had made far too many assumptions about him, and she couldn't help but feel a little contrite.

"I don't hate you," Sansa said. "I know that's what I said last night, but it isn't true. I don't hate you. I was just angry."

"And you had every right to be angry. I'm angry, and I'm the one who created this whole mess."

"I meant what I said about wanting to try for a baby again. I think it's what's best for Winterfell and for Eddard."

"But what about what's best for you, Sansa? What about what's best for you? Is this what you want? Do you want to take me into your bed again on the off chance that we might produce an heir? Because there's also a chance that we won't. We could lie together a dozen times and my seed might never take root. Is that really the chance you want to take?"

If it meant spending every night with Tyrion until he left Winterfell, then yes, that was exactly the chance Sansa wanted to take, but she couldn't admit it. She knew that Tyrion wouldn't understand. So instead, she asked, "Was it really that much of a hardship for you, my lord? Because if it's just that you would rather not share my bed—"

Tyrion waved his hands between them, urging Sansa to stop. "No, that isn't it. I don't want you to suffer any more than you already have. No one is going to fault you if you let this go. No one. You don't need to force yourself to do this just for the sake of duty. After all, you are the Lady of Winterfell. You get to make your own rules. No one can tell you what to do."

"That isn't true," Sansa said. "That's never been true. Winterfell comes with its own set of rules that every lord and lady who watches over it must follow. We don't get to choose which ones we want to abide by and which ones we want to ignore. All are important, and all must be followed, for the good of the north."

Tyrion sighed heavily, glancing away for a moment in obvious frustration. When he finally looked up at Sansa again, he said, "I can't do what you're asking. I'm sorry. I will not be forced to bed a woman who doesn't want me. You can make me sleep with the dogs if you like, or the pigs. Hell, you can bring them all into my chamber and make me sleep side by side with them so that no one's the wiser, but I will not share your bed. And there's nothing you can do or say that will change my mind."

Sansa knew there was one thing that might sway him, but she was scared to say it. Her pride was already wounded, and she feared she might not survive being rejected again. And yet, the alternative was so much worse. If she didn't say something, Tyrion would walk away from her forever and they would never have this chance again. The night before, Sansa had been prepared to bare her heart to him, and then, he had ruined everything by taking her down into the crypts. She was wary about opening up to him now, but she had to take a chance. She couldn't tell him that she loved him, she wasn't ready for that, but she could give him something. So despite the anxiety gnawing at her belly, Sansa said the only thing she could say, "What if I told you that I want you, Tyrion Lannister?"

Tyrion's eyes narrowed on her as if searching for the truth, and Sansa held her breath. Her heart beat an uneven rhythm as she waited for him to reply. It had taken a great deal of courage for her to admit that she wanted him. She'd never been quite so open with him before, and she didn't know whether or not it had been a mistake. She felt scared and uncertain and vulnerable, and she desperately needed to know what Tyrion was thinking.

Tyrion was silent for a long moment, and then, suddenly, he laughed. "And here I'd thought you'd lost your sense of humor."

The sound of Tyrion's laughter cut Sansa to the core, and she instantly felt like a fool. But the damage was already done, and there was no going back. "I'm not joking."

"You must be," he said, the amusement slowly fading from his voice. "You can't possibly mean it."

"Of course, I mean it. I wouldn't have said it otherwise."

Tyrion's eyes took on a somber cast, and for a long moment, he just stared at Sansa, the silence between them nearly unbearable.

"You . . . you want me?" he finally asked, the words so small and weak that she barely heard them.

"Yes, I do."

"In your bed?"

"Yes."

Tyrion shook his head, his eyes glassy with disbelief. "But why?"

Because she loved him, of course, but she knew she couldn't say that. Tyrion had laughed when she had admitted that she wanted him in her bed. She could only imagine how he'd react if she confessed her undying love. But Sansa knew she couldn't stand there cold and silent. She had to say something. "Do you really need to ask?"

"Yes, I think I do."

Sansa looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Suddenly, she felt like a scared little girl, not a full-grown woman. "I have enjoyed having you in my bed," she replied, every nerve in her body trembling. "When we are alone together, beneath the furs, you make me feel things that I never thought I was capable of feeling. You have been nothing but kind and gentle to me in our marriage bed, and I have enjoyed every moment of it. I don't know how you can doubt that."

By the time Sansa finished, her heart was beating wildly beneath her breast, and it took a great deal of courage for her to look at Tyrion again. His expression was unreadable, and for a moment, Sansa wasn't sure if her words had meant anything to him at all.

But finally, Tyrion nodded. "I have enjoyed it too."

"Good. Then you should have no trouble visiting me again."

"Sansa—"

"You can't possibly have any further objection."

"I . . . I just think that, with the way things are between us, it would be better if we didn't lie together again. That's all."

"Do you still intend to return to Casterly Rock at the end of the month?"

Tyrion inhaled a steadying breath. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

Sansa stared at Tyrion for a moment. That was the last thing she had expected him to say. Was he really leaving it up to her? Would he really stay if she told him that's what she wanted? Sansa wanted to say the words, wanted to tell him that she needed him by her side, but she couldn't. If she forced him to stay, the resentment between them would only fester, and that was the last thing she wanted. She knew that Arya would be angry with her for letting Tyrion go, but Sansa refused to force him to stay.

"What I want is irrelevant," Sansa said. "It always has been. You may do as you please, but if you do intend to leave, then it is more imperative than ever that we at least try to produce another heir. Give me a child, and you may go. After that, I promise I will never bother you again."

There was pain in Tyrion's eyes as he stared up at her, though Sansa wasn't quite sure what was troubling him. "Sansa, I—"

"If you are amenable to what I've suggested, I would like you to come to me tonight. Will you do so? Or will you disappoint me yet again?"

Tyrion flinched, and Sansa felt a twinge of guilt. She knew she was being manipulative, but she couldn't stop herself. Tyrion was about to abandon her again, and she wanted to take what she could from him before he was gone forever. She loved him, and she wanted to be close to him while she still had the chance. She knew she wasn't playing fair, but at that moment, she didn't particularly care.

"Well?" Sansa asked when Tyrion didn't answer.

It took him a moment, but he finally said, "All right. I'll do as you've asked. But Sansa, if you change your mind, if you decide at any time, at any moment, that you don't want me again, you must tell me. Things are difficult enough between us now. I have no intention of forcing myself on you. If you're just doing this for the sake of duty and honor—"

"I'm not. I'm doing this for myself."

"Very well, then," Tyrion said with a nod. "I will come to you tonight."

Sansa had thought she'd feel relieved when Tyrion agreed to her demands, but she didn't. A tiny knot of anxiety settled deep in the pit of her stomach, and suddenly, she was as nervous as she had been the first time she had given herself to him. Tyrion knew for certain now that she wanted him, and that made her vulnerable in a way she had never been before.

Sansa fought to hide her deep sense of insecurity. She kept her spine straight and her shoulders back as she replied, "Thank you. I will see you tonight then."

Sansa didn't wait for Tyrion to answer. Instead, she quickly turned around and left the room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she closed the door behind her and slumped back against it, all the bravery suddenly draining out of her. When she finally looked up, she was startled to find Arya standing against the opposite wall, staring at her.

"I thought I told you not to follow me," Sansa snapped.

Arya shrugged. "When do I ever listen to you?"

Sansa pushed herself away from the door so that Tyrion wouldn't hear their conversation. "I'm sure you were listening now, weren't you? Did you hear every word?"

"I heard enough. Why didn't you ask him to stay? He gave you the chance."

"Because he's the Lord of Winterfell, and he's free to do as he pleases. I'm not about to demand anything from him."

"Other than that he give you a baby," Arya said wryly.

"Well, yes, but that's different."

"Why?"

"Because it's what Winterfell needs."

"And what about what Eddard needs?" Arya asked, her tone turning far more serious.

"Tyrion is not going to stop being Eddard's father just because he's living at Casterly Rock. I'm sure we'll find a way to make it work."

Arya shook her head, her eyes dark with disapproval, but she didn't say another word. She just turned on her heel and headed down the corridor, leaving Sansa alone.

Sansa knew that Arya thought she was a coward, and maybe Arya was right, but Sansa couldn't make Tyrion stay. Eddard deserved a peaceful home with parents who weren't constantly at war with each other. If Sansa forced Tyrion to remain at Winterfell, there was every chance that things would only get worse between them, and she didn't want that for herself or for Eddard.

Sansa inhaled a long, slow breath, forcing herself to head back toward the kitchens, her legs shaking beneath her. It was still morning, and it would be hours before she and Tyrion found themselves alone together again. Sansa was tired of fighting, and despite what had happened the night before, she just wanted things to be amicable between her and Tyrion. She knew that when he came to visit her later that night, there would be peace between them for a short while, but she was certain it wouldn't last.


	30. Chapter 29

Author's Note: I absolutely hate to do this, but I think I'm going to have to take a break from posting for the next week or two because of the holidays. I just have too much to do right now, and I want to take my time editing the next chapter. If, by some miracle, I can get the next chapter up sooner, I will, but I kind of want to take a break and just enjoy the holidays without a deadline hanging over my head. I promise though, the next chapter will definitely be worth the wait. 😉

* * *

Chapter Twenty-nine

Tyrion stood in the quiet of Sansa's sitting room, staring at the door, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He had assumed that Arya was playing some kind of cruel trick on him, that she had lured him there to lull him into a false sense of security before the ax literally fell, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Tyrion was trembling all over, still shocked that Sansa had admitted to wanting him. Of course, Sansa had always been responsive when he'd visited her bed, but he'd never equated that responsiveness with desire. It was absurd, really, but his pride hadn't let him make that connection. But now that she had said the words, Tyrion couldn't ignore the truth any longer. His wife didn't love him – he wasn't even sure that she liked him – but she did want him, and that was more than he had ever hoped for.

Tyrion shook himself, trying to regain control of his faculties. He knew he couldn't stand there forever, staring at the door like a mute fool. He was still the Lord of Winterfell, and he had duties to attend to, first of which was ridding himself of the unmistakable smell of wet dog.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally managed to leave Sansa's sitting room and make his way to his own chamber. He called for a bath, and while he waited, he stood before the mirror by the washbasin and began pulling bits of hay out of his hair.

He looked positively dreadful, and it amazed him that Sansa had been able to stand there and declare her desire for him at all. But then, even though Sansa had said that she wanted him in her bed for selfish reasons, Tyrion didn't entirely believe her. He knew her proposal was just as much about duty as it was about desire.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and a moment later, an army of servants entered the room carrying a large wooden tub and buckets of water. The tub was quickly filled, and Tyrion soon found himself alone again. He stripped out of his clothes, carelessly discarding them on the floor near the fire, and climbed into the steaming bath.

Tyrion sighed as he sank beneath the water. He scrubbed the stench from his body and then relaxed against the back of the tub, enjoying the feel of the heat sinking into his bones. He stared at the flames dancing in the hearth, wondering just what he had done to make the gods look so favorably upon him. He had a loving son, a wife who wanted him, and he was lord of one of the most powerful keeps in all of Westeros. His life was nearly perfect in every way.

Well, except for one thing, of course.

Tyrion laughed bitterly, dunking his head beneath the water to wash the thought from his mind, but when he resurfaced, it was still there. No matter how perfect his life was, there was one thing that was still missing. Although Tyrion loved Sansa with all his heart and all his soul, he knew that she could never love him in return. It was a sad fact that he had resigned himself to long ago. Sansa didn't love him, she could barely tolerate him, and even though she had every right to feel that way, somehow, it didn't make it hurt any less.

Tyrion stayed in the bath until the water turned cold. Then, he dried himself off and got dressed, and suddenly, he felt a great deal lordlier than he had when he'd woken up that morning. His headache had all but disappeared, and he was tempted to start his day with another flagon of wine but quickly thought better of it. There was a tentative peace between him and Sansa, and he was not about to risk ruining it by drinking again.

Instead, Tyrion grabbed a piece of bread from the tray that had been left for him earlier that morning and headed off to start his day. By the time he reached the Great Hall, Sansa was already there, meeting with one of their tenant farmers. They were discussing plans to reconstruct a border wall on the edge of the man's farm. Even though it was still winter, the snows were beginning to melt, and people were already making plans for the spring.

Tyrion sat beside Sansa, listening to her talk. He didn't much care about what was being said, but he was entranced by the sound of her voice and the way she held herself as she addressed the man before her. She was so regal, so dignified. So like her mother. Tyrion had never been particularly fond of Catelyn Stark, but then, he'd had more than enough reason to dislike her and the feeling had been more than mutual. But just because he hadn't been fond of her, didn't mean that he hadn't respected her. She had been a strong woman, a woman who had always fought for her children. And even though Tyrion was certain that, had she lived, she would have done everything in her power to separate him and Sansa, he was truly sorry that she was gone.

Tyrion fidgeted in his seat, feeling the eyes of a thousand dead Starks staring down at him from every corner of the hall. He could feel their collective disapproval deep in his bones. He was an intruder, an invader. He had no more right to be the Lord of Winterfell than Roose Bolton had when he had taken the keep. And yet, there Tyrion was, sitting at the high table, in Ned Stark's place, and somehow, they were all just going to have to make the best of it – Tyrion, Sansa, and all the dead Starks entombed below them.

Eventually, Sansa sent the petitioner on his way and finally turned to look at Tyrion. "I believe that is all for this morning," she said. "You were very late."

"Well, I didn't think you wanted me smelling like wet dog," Tyrion replied. "I'm sorry if I was wrong."

"There are some ravens that need to be seen to. If you truly wish to make up for your tardiness, you can reply to those." Sansa didn't wait for Tyrion to answer. She just stood with the grace and dignity of a queen and left the Great Hall without another word.

Tyrion didn't mind handling the daily messages that went in and out of Winterfell. In fact, it was one of his favorite duties as lord of the keep. He had a curious mind, and one never knew what interesting or not-so-interesting news might arrive by raven. Tyrion didn't mind replying either. He enjoyed writing almost as much as he enjoyed reading. He was a clever talker, yes, but he was even more clever when he had time to think about his words before committing them to parchment.

Tyrion threw himself into his work, deciding to spend his time in the Great Hall rather than in his study. There were simply too many scrolls, and he knew his stunted arms couldn't carry all of them at once.

More than an hour passed before Tyrion looked up from his work. He heard footsteps behind him, and when he turned around to see who was approaching, he found Brienne entering the hall.

Tyrion moved to stand, as was the custom when a lady entered the room, but Brienne held out a hand, stopping him.

"Please, don't," she said. "I was just looking for Sansa."

Tyrion quickly settled back down in his chair. "I'm afraid she's done here for the morning. I'm not sure where she is now."

"Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I shall go and find her."

Brienne turned to leave, but Tyrion just couldn't let her go.

"Lady Brienne, wait!"

Brienne stopped and turned toward Tyrion again. There was a curious look in her eyes, as if she was just as surprised as he was that he had called her back. Since her arrival at Winterfell, Tyrion and Brienne had never shared a single private moment together. And while Tyrion wasn't quite sure what he wanted to say to her, he knew that Brienne was very close to Sansa, and he hoped that she might be able to offer him some insight into his wife's true feelings.

"Would you care to join me for a little while?" Tyrion asked, desperate to make her stay. "I could use the company."

"Are you sure it's my company you want, my lord? You've never sought it out before."

"I've never gotten you alone before. Please," he said, motioning toward the chair beside him, "join me."

Brienne gave him a wary look but approached the table just the same. She slipped into Sansa's chair with an awkwardness that was almost laughable for someone who was so graceful on the battlefield. With a sword in her hand, Lady Brienne was poised and confident, but in formal company, she was a lot less sure of herself.

Tyrion smiled at Brienne, trying to put her at ease, but she didn't smile back. It was obvious that she didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her for assuming the worst. He had only asked her to stay because he wanted something, and he was sure she knew it.

"Is there something specific you want to discuss, my lord?" Brienne asked.

Tyrion paused for a moment. He didn't want her to think that the only reason he'd asked her to stay was to question her about Sansa. He racked his brain for something else to say, blurting out the first reasonable thing that came to mind. "Podrick," he said, nearly tripping over the word.

"What about Podrick?"

"Well, I know he's at Casterly Rock and that he's finally become a knight, but I wondered how he was doing. How _you_ think he's doing. Remember, he was once my squire. And a good one at that. He saved my life at the Battle of the Blackwater."

Brienne's suspicions seemed to ease a bit, and her countenance softened. "Podrick has grown into quite an accomplished young man," she said. "There were times when I wasn't sure he was ever going to make it as far as knighthood, but he fought bravely in the Great War, and King Jon was impressed by his prowess on the battlefield."

"And why shouldn't Jon be impressed? Pod learned everything from you, and you truly are a skilled warrior."

Brienne's eyes narrowed on Tyrion, and he squirmed under her scrutiny.

"Do you really think that I'm a fool for flattery, Lord Tyrion?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Then why do you try to flatter me? Do you want something from me?"

Tyrion opened his mouth, intending to deny it, but the look in Brienne's eyes told him that she was not going to stay there another moment unless he admitted the truth.

Reluctantly, Tyrion said, "Well, there is something."

"Something to do with Lady Sansa?"

"Now that you mention it, yes."

The hint of a smile curved Brienne's lips. "What is it that you want to know?"

"I—" Tyrion didn't know what to ask. He'd honestly thought that Brienne wouldn't let him get that far. But now that she had, he knew he needed to choose his words wisely. He tried to think of something clever to say, but both his wit and his wisdom failed him. "I don't know."

"You want to know how she feels about you, don't you?"

"I do," Tyrion answered before he could stop himself. "Except, I think I already know how she feels about me. I'm an obligation, a responsibility, a duty she is shackled to for the rest of her life. That's all."

"Is that what you really think?" Brienne asked, her tone implying that she thought he was the stupidest man in all the world.

"Isn't that the case?"

Brienne shook her head. "You men are all the same, aren't you? You can never see what's clearly right in front of you. Do you really think you mean nothing to Sansa?"

"I don't think I mean nothing to her. I'm her husband. I'm the father of her child—"

"Oh, so you believe that now, do you?"

"Yes," Tyrion said, the word barely audible.

"And pray tell, how did that happen?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Tyrion replied, the subject making him decidedly uncomfortable. "Jaime knows, and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to tell you. The point is, I am Sansa's husband and the father of her child, and those things will always connect us, but that doesn't mean she feels anything more for me than a sense of obligation. Until this morning, I thought she hated me. In fact, last night, she swore that she did. But she has since changed her mind. And now, I have to wonder, if she doesn't hate me, how does she feel about me? Because I can't imagine that she feels anything for me but contempt."

"I suppose Sansa has an odd way of showing her affection," Brienne said, "but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel it."

"Affection?" That was the last word Tyrion would have ever used to describe Sansa's feelings for him. "You think Sansa feels an affection for me?"

"I think she feels more than that for you, though it's probably not my place to say so."

"Why . . . why would you even think such a thing?"

"Because I was there with her when you weren't. After she left the Vale, after I found her, I was her constant companion. Before Catelyn Stark was murdered, I gave her my word that I would protect her daughters with my life, and that's exactly what I did. I know how much Sansa has suffered since you've been gone, how long she waited for you to return. She never gave up hope that you would come back to her, and she truly thought, when you did, things would be amicable between you. It never occurred to her that you might doubt Eddard's paternity, so all the dreams she had about you returning to her were happy ones. Reality shattered that, of course. But still, I can assure you, there was a time when she felt great affection for you, and I don't think that feeling has gone. It's just been buried a bit."

Tyrion stared at Brienne in stunned silence. She painted a picture of a young girl who had lost everything and had been left with no choice but to cling to a false hope. He knew now that if Sansa had ever felt any affection for him, it wasn't something he had earned, it was something that time and circumstance had crafted to keep her from succumbing to her grief.

"I see you don't believe me," Brienne said.

"Oh, I believe you. But I think you misunderstand Sansa's feelings just as much as I have misunderstood them."

"How so?"

"If she ever felt any affection for me, it wasn't really for me, but for the idea of me. When I fled King's Landing, we hardly knew each other. We had scarcely spent any time together as husband and wife, and there was very little between us besides routine pleasantries and polite conversation. There was nothing there that could have inspired real affection. But when we parted, well, why shouldn't the girl have started to imagine things differently? Why shouldn't she have started to grow an affection for her ghost of a husband, especially when she was carrying his baby in her belly?"

Brienne leaned forward, and Tyrion fought the urge to fall farther back in his chair. She was an imposing woman, even in her silks, and it was obvious that he had upset her.

"Do you really believe half the shit that comes out of your mouth?"

Tyrion laughed awkwardly. "I wouldn't say it's shit. Actually, a lot of what I say is quite insightful."

"It's shit, that's what it is. Sansa loves you, whether you're willing to admit it or not. She always has and she always will, and no amount of stupidity on your part is ever going to change that."

Tyrion stared at Brienne, his mouth agape. He was so shocked that he couldn't even breathe.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked, clearly confused. "Is it so difficult for you to believe the truth?"

"_Love_," Tyrion said, his tongue having difficulty forming the word. "You said she loves me."

Brienne averted her eyes, suddenly unable to look at him. "No, no, I'm sure I didn't."

"And I'm sure you did." Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intently focused on Brienne. "Has Sansa ever told you that she loves me?"

Brienne finally met his gaze again, her confidence returning. "No, never."

Tyrion leaned back. "See, I told you. She may love her long-lost husband, but she doesn't love me. She loves a fairy story, a dream, nothing more."

Brienne shook her head. "Believe what you want. That's what you always seem to do anyway. For the longest time, you believed that Eddard wasn't your son. And why? Because you were too insecure to believe the truth? And now, you're doing the same thing with Sansa, believing the worst because you're so used to wallowing in your own self-pity."

"You've been talking to my brother, haven't you?"

"Just a bit."

"Well, it's nice to know that he thinks so highly of me."

"Jaime loves you," Brienne said. "More than you probably deserve. But love isn't about what we deserve, is it? It's not something that we can earn through good behavior or by being righteous or dutiful. It's something that is freely given to us despite our flaws. Perhaps you'd be wise to remember that." Brienne pushed back her chair and abruptly stood. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have more important things to do than spend my time talking to someone who is so adamantly determined not to listen to reason."

Brienne didn't even wait for a reply. Without another word, she turned and left the Great Hall, leaving Tyrion staring after her.

For a moment, he couldn't even move.

_Could Brienne be right? Could Sansa love him?_

It was far more than Tyrion had ever dreamed possible, and no matter how much he wanted to believe it, he simply didn't have that kind of faith. Sansa had every right to hate him. The fact that she didn't was a blessing in and of itself. But love? That was something else entirely, and far too much for Tyrion to hope for.

When the shock finally began to wear off, Tyrion turned back to his work, determined to forget every last word Brienne had said. He hadn't slept well the night before, for obvious reasons, and he knew it was going to be a very long day. He wasn't looking forward to visiting Sansa again at the end of the night, but he had a duty to perform and he would do it without complaint, even though his heart longed for more than Sansa would ever be able to give.


	31. Chapter 30

Author's Note: I am so sorry that this chapter took so long to post. It's the second longest chapter in the entire fic, and I wanted to make sure that I got it right. Thank you all for your patience.

* * *

Chapter Thirty

Sansa had expected the day to fly by, but it didn't. It crawled painfully along, the hours dragging out with interminable slowness. By the time dinner was through, she was exhausted, and yet, too full of nervous anticipation to even think of telling Tyrion not to come to her. The thought of lying with him again had been the one bright spot in a long and stressful day, a beacon of light amid the petty squabbles and household drama that she'd had to field since she'd woken up that morning.

As Tyrion left Sansa's solar after dinner, she gave him a pointed look, determined to make sure that he kept his earlier promise. Tyrion met her gaze without hesitation and nodded, reassuring her that he knew exactly what was expected of him. A moment later, he was gone, not a single word passing between them.

Arya moved up behind Sansa, her steps so light that Sansa almost didn't hear her. "If you're going to do this," Arya said, "you might consider being a bit more honest with him about your motives. That is, if you still value honesty."

Sansa turned her head to glare at Arya over her shoulder. "Can you please take Eddard to his chamber and get him settled for the night like I asked you to?"

"You mean and keep my opinions to myself?" Arya said with a smirk.

"Yes, exactly."

Arya's smile widened, but she didn't say another word. She just went back to the table to fetch Eddard, and soon, Sansa found herself alone.

Sansa wasted no time in retiring to her bedchamber to prepare for the evening ahead. She donned her prettiest nightgown and instructed her handmaiden to brush her hair until it shone as brightly as the flames dancing in the hearth. She even dabbed a few drops of perfume on her wrists, something she hadn't done in ages, and sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table, staring at her own reflection as she waited for her husband to join her.

Sansa examined her face with a critical eye. Although she had suffered a great deal in her short life, she was still young and the tragedies that lived in her heart barely showed on her face. She was still pretty, or at least, people told her that she was still pretty. The Beauty of Winterfell they called her, the fairest lady in all the north.

And yet, her husband still preferred the company of other women. Sansa supposed that she just wasn't the type of woman that Tyrion fancied. Shae had been an exotic beauty with her dark features and olive skin. Her accent had been enchanting, and Sansa was sure that Tyrion still heard her voice sometimes when he closed his eyes. Sometimes, Sansa heard her voice too, and it always made her sad. Despite what had happened between Tyrion and Shae, Sansa still cared for her former handmaiden a great deal and still mourned her loss.

A gentle knock on the door stirred Sansa from her musings, and she quickly turned toward the sound. "Come in," she said softly.

The door creaked open, and Tyrion stepped into the room. He was dressed in a nightshirt and robe, his hair a mess of dark golden curls atop his head. He looked painfully serious, as if he was being led to the executioner's block, and Sansa wished there was some way to make him dread his duty just a little less. She hated the fact that Tyrion had only ever come to her because he had to, not because he wanted to. It made her feel worthless and unwanted, as if the only way she could get a man to visit her bed was if she forced him to join her.

Tyrion bowed his head in Sansa's direction. "Good evening, my lady," he said, his tone undeniably strained. Once he had properly greeted her, he turned around and closed the door behind him.

Sansa stood, her heart sinking as she rose to her feet. She didn't want things to be like this between them, so formal, so forced. It was painful in a way that she almost couldn't bear.

Tyrion turned back toward Sansa, his eyes moving directly to her face. He didn't look her over, didn't take the time to appreciate the pretty gown she wore or the fall of crimson curls cascading over her shoulder. He just looked her squarely in the eyes, clearly determined to fulfill his duty and leave. "Shall we get on with it then?" he asked, as if she were no better than one of his whores.

But Sansa was in no hurry to go to bed. The sooner they went to bed, the sooner Tyrion would leave, and Sansa wanted to spend as much time with him as she could. "Would you care for some wine?" she asked, suddenly feeling the need to calm her nerves before they went any further.

"Wine?" Tyrion seemed startled by the question. "Yes, yes, that would be lovely."

Sansa turned away and moved toward the small table in the corner of the room. At her request, her maidservant had brought her a flagon of Winterfell's best wine and two matching glasses. Sansa filled both glasses and then turned around and offered one to Tyrion.

Tyrion ambled across the room, stopping an arm's length from Sansa, just close enough to reach out and take the wine from her hand. Their fingers touched as the glass passed between them, and they both looked away awkwardly, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it should.

Sansa took a fortifying sip of wine, peering over the rim of her glass to look at Tyrion. He swallowed nearly half his glass in a single instant, and Sansa suddenly regretted having given him the wine in the first place.

"Do you intend to get drunk before we've even begun?" she snapped.

Tyrion lowered his glass. "One glass of wine, no matter how fast I drink it, is not going to get me drunk. Trust me, my lady, I am made of heartier stuff than that."

Sansa took another sip of her drink, and Tyrion did the same. She was still unconvinced that he wasn't trying to lose himself in the bottom of his glass. She wanted him to be present for their coupling, in command of all his faculties. She wanted him to be as gentle with her tonight as he had been the times before.

Sansa put her glass back down on the table, even though it was still half full. She had the urge to pull Tyrion's glass from his lips, but she resisted. She didn't want to make an even bigger fool of herself than she already had.

When Tyrion finally lowered his glass again, Sansa held out her hand, urging him to give it back to her. He returned it without protest, and Sansa placed it on the table beside her own.

"Did that help?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa looked askance at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"The wine. Did it help? Did it make the idea of having me in your bed any easier to bear?"

"I already told you—"

"I know what you told me, but if you think I believe it, seeing you here like this, then you're not as smart as I always thought you were."

Tyrion's words hurt Sansa deeply. She had spent far too many years surrounded by people who thought she was a fool, and to hear her own husband question her intelligence was painful beyond measure.

Sansa turned away from the table and faced Tyrion again. "Just because you're incapable of believing the truth when you hear it, does not mean that I'm a fool. I told you that I want you because I do. I can't help it if you're too jaded to believe it."

"And why should I believe it when you need liquid fortification before you can let me in your bed?"

Sansa laughed bitterly. "Why shouldn't I need fortification? I know you don't want to be here. I know you're only doing this out of a sense of obligation. I know you'd rather be with one of your whores than with me. Don't think I don't know that."

Tyrion's eyes turned dark with anger, and for a moment, Sansa thought he was going to lash out at her. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and she could see him struggling to keep his temper under control. "Why is it all right for you to doubt my words, but not all right for me to doubt yours?"

"When have I ever lied to you?" Sansa asked.

"And when have I ever lied to you?"

Sansa didn't know how to reply. Beyond Tyrion's insistence that he had been faithful to her since the day they had been wed, she couldn't think of a single untruth he had ever told her. Even when she'd asked him about Shae's death, he'd been honest with her, he'd held nothing back. Sansa wanted to believe that Tyrion was telling the truth about being faithful to her, but she just couldn't. Not after she had sworn Eddard's paternity on her father's bones, while Tyrion had refused to swear his fidelity on his mother's. The fact that he had refused would always leave doubt in Sansa's mind, and she didn't think she would ever be able to get past it.

Sansa looked away, unable to meet Tyrion's gaze any longer. She didn't know what to say to him, and suddenly, she just wished he would leave.

But Tyrion had no intention of leaving, at least not yet. After a long pause, he said, "Sansa, look at me."

Sansa didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to deal with him anymore.

"Please," Tyrion said, his voice softening, "don't force me to make it a command."

Sansa's eyes darted back to Tyrion, horrified by the suggestion. Even though he was the Lord of Winterfell, he had never used his position against her before, and she hated that he was doing it now.

"That's better," Tyrion said. "Thank you. Now, answer my question."

"What question is that?" Sansa asked, pretending that she didn't remember.

"When have I ever lied to you?"

"You lied to me about being faithful."

Tyrion gritted his teeth. "Besides that."

Sansa opened her mouth to reply but couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Well?" Tyrion prompted. "I'm waiting."

"I'm sure you have lied to me many times, my lord, but since they were lies, how am I to know the difference? You're very cunning and clever and very good at subterfuge. I'm surprised Joffrey didn't appreciate you more when you were his Hand."

Tyrion's eyes grew even darker, and Sansa knew she had struck a nerve. She wished she could take back what she had just said. It was a low blow, even under the circumstances, and she very much regretted it.

"I see I've misjudged you, my lady," Tyrion replied. "You are quite clever yourself. And quite cruel. I suppose you learned a great deal from my sister during your time in King's Landing. I shall have to remember that."

Now, it was Sansa who was angry, and she couldn't control her temper quite as well as Tyrion could. "How dare you compare me to Cersei? Cersei Lannister was a monster."

"And so was her son, and yet, you think I was happy to serve him. The only good that ever happened while Joffrey was on the throne, happened while I was his Hand. I tried my damnedest to do what I could for the people of Westeros under his tyrannical rule. I may have failed, but at least I tried."

Sansa knew that Tyrion was no monster, that he had done all he could to protect the people from Joffrey's cruelty. But it hurt her to know that Tyrion thought she was just like his sister. Sansa hated Cersei Lannister, just as much as she hated being compared to her.

"I'm nothing like Cersei," Sansa said, her tone calmer than before.

"Of course you're not. My sister was a mean, cruel, selfish woman who only cared about herself. Oh, she claimed to care about her family, but I don't know if she ever really did. Sometimes I thought she cared, but after what she did to Tommen's young bride, I can't help but question even that. But you, Sansa. I have never questioned your love for your family or your kindness or selflessness. You are often too selfless for your own good, which I suppose is why we ended up here tonight in the first place."

"Selflessness has nothing to do with it."

"Doesn't it?"

"No," Sansa replied. "I meant what I said. I want you, Tyrion, whether you believe me or not."

Tyrion sighed heavily and looked away. It was obvious that he was frustrated. Sansa knew he didn't want to be there, but she had hoped he could at least pretend for her sake. She didn't think she was asking too much. He was a man. She was a woman. He had needs just like any other man. Surely, she could fulfill them just like any other woman.

The silence between them was deafening, and Sansa knew she had to say something. "Would it help if you pretended that I was someone else?"

A biting laugh escaped Tyrion's throat, but he still refused to look at her. "You mean like the first time we were together, all those years ago in King's Landing?"

Tyrion's words hit Sansa like a dagger to the heart. Had he been thinking of Shae that night? In five long years, it had never once occurred to Sansa that Tyrion might have been thinking about another woman the night he had taken her innocence. But now, she could scarcely doubt it.

"I . . . I hadn't realized that you were thinking about someone else even then," Sansa said, unable to keep the pain from her voice.

"What?" Tyrion's eyes found hers again. "No, no. I wasn't talking about me. I was talking about you and Ser Loras. Or don't you remember?"

"I wasn't thinking about Ser Loras. Not after you kissed me."

Tyrion stared at Sansa in stunned disbelief, his eyes searching her face for the truth. He didn't speak. He didn't say a single word. And Sansa realized that she desperately needed to know who Tyrion had been thinking of the first time they had been together.

"Were you thinking about her?" Sansa asked.

"Who?"

"Shae."

Tyrion inhaled a shaky breath, the word obviously as difficult for him to hear as it was for her to say. He shook his head. "No, Sansa, no. That night . . . that night, I was only thinking of you. There was no one else in the entire world that night. Just you."

Sansa turned away then, giving Tyrion her back. She was suddenly overcome with emotion, and she didn't want him to see the tears that were threatening to fall. She loved him so much, and more than anything, she wished that he could love her in return.

Tyrion moved up behind Sansa, but he didn't reach out. Instead, he said, "Sansa, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to keep the tears from coming. "That was a very long time ago, and things are very different now, aren't they?"

"Are they? We're still in a loveless marriage that neither one of us wants. The only real difference I see is that we used to be friends, and now, we seem to be adversaries."

Sansa straightened her spine, Tyrion's words wounding her deeply. "Do you really want out of this marriage?"

"It doesn't matter what I want."

"Yes, it does. Is that what you really want, Tyrion Lannister? Do you want out of this loveless marriage?"

Tyrion was silent for a long time, and Sansa waited patiently for him to answer. When he didn't, she finally turned around and looked at him again. He was staring up at her with so much pain in his eyes that he looked like a wounded animal. He looked exactly how Sansa felt inside.

"What . . . what do you want, Tyrion? Honestly?"

"What do I want?" he repeated the question as if he was trying to make sense of the words. "What do I want? I want . . . I want for you to trust me, Sansa. That's what I want. That's all I've ever wanted. I understand, better than you think, how hurt you were when I didn't believe you about Eddard's paternity. I do. Because that's how I feel now. You don't trust me, and trust – even more than love – is essential to a good marriage, to the kind of marriage your mother and father had, to the kind of marriage you deserve. Without that, why should we even bother trying?"

Tyrion's words were said with such sincerity that Sansa was tempted to believe everything he had ever told her. She was tempted to believe that he had been faithful to her from the very beginning, that he was the good, honest, trustworthy man she had always thought him to be. But she was scared to believe it. She had been a fool more than once in her life, first for Joffrey and then for Littlefinger. She didn't want to be anyone's fool ever again.

"Tell me honestly," Sansa said, struggling to keep her tone as even as possible, "tell me if you were faithful or not, and I'll believe you. But before you do, please know that it doesn't matter to me who else has shared your bed. I just want you to be honest with me. If you can be honest, that's all that matters."

"And yet, I have been honest with you before and it hasn't mattered. Why should this time be any different?"

"What you said is true. Trust is the most important part of a marriage. And if we're going to stay married – and it seems we have no choice in the matter now – then I'm going to choose to trust you because I'm tired of being miserable and I'm tired of fighting all the time."

Tyrion nodded slowly, clearly contemplating his answer before replying. Sansa waited patiently for him to confess his sins, to confess his infidelities. She knew it was going to hurt, but she was prepared for the pain. Lies hurt more than anything, even ugly truths, and Sansa wanted the truth.

"All right then," Tyrion said. "I'll tell you the truth. It isn't going to be easy, but I'll tell you."

Sansa's heart sank like a stone, and her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. She gripped the table behind her to keep herself from falling to the floor. She waited, her breath caught in her throat, for Tyrion to finally confess the truth.

"I, Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin and Joanna Lannister of Casterly Rock, do solemnly swear on the bones of my dear, departed mother that I have not bedded anyone but you, Sansa Stark, since the day we were wed. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

By the time Tyrion finished, Sansa's entire body was shaking. Then, without warning, her legs gave way beneath her and she fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands as she burst into tears. Relief and guilt washed over her in equal measure, and she didn't know how to face Tyrion again after having doubted him for so long.

"Sansa." Tyrion's voice was soft and warm as he called out her name, but she still couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Sansa, don't cry. Please, don't cry."

Sansa dropped her hands to her lap and stared at the floor, happy to be looking anywhere but at Tyrion's face. She shook her head, dislodging a single tear and sending it rolling down her cheek. "I'm such a wretched person," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, Tyrion."

Tyrion made a sound almost like a laugh. "You're not wretched, Sansa. You're about as far from wretched as anyone I've ever known. Look at me, please. I want to see your face."

Sansa finally looked up at him, her vision blurry with tears. His gaze was soft, gentle, and she knew he felt no resentment toward her, no matter how much she deserved it.

"It's all right, Sansa. I'm not angry with you. I'm just glad that this is all finally over, that you finally believe me. You can't imagine the relief I feel."

"But I made you swear on your mother's bones."

Tyrion shook his head, smiling softly. "No, you didn't. That was my choice, not yours. You didn't make me do it. I did it because . . . because I want what you want. I want a marriage based on trust, and the only way we're going to start trusting each other is if everything is finally out in the open between us. We've both done things we're not proud of. I . . . I made you swear that Eddard is my son on your father's bones. Sansa, I am so sorry for that. You have no idea how sorry. I put my insecurities before your feelings, and I wish, more than anything, that I could take it back."

Sansa was touched by Tyrion's words, though she knew that nothing could change what had already passed between them. "What's done is done," she said, "and neither one of us can go back."

"Then maybe it's time we started moving forward. I trust you implicitly, Sansa. And I think, now, you trust me too, don't you?"

Sansa nodded. "I do. Though I feel like a fool for not having taken you at your word before."

"No," Tyrion said, "you are no fool, Sansa. I didn't believe you any more than you believed me, not because I thought you were a liar, but because I couldn't believe that someone like you could ever be faithful to someone like me. It had everything to do with my own insecurities and nothing to do with you. And for your part, why should you have believed that the most lust filled, lecherous man in all of Westeros had chosen to be celibate for five long years? It sounds more fantastical than anything in one of your fairy stories. No one could fault you for not believing it. Not really."

Even though Sansa no longer doubted Tyrion's fidelity, she still didn't understand why he had remained faithful to her during their long estrangement. He was a man, after all, with needs so notorious that bards sang songs about it. Sansa wanted to believe that Tyrion had abstained from bedding other women because he was secretly in love with her, but she couldn't quite believe that. "Why . . . why did you choose to stay faithful when you could have easily strayed?"

Tyrion glanced away, running a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. "It's . . . it's not for any good reason, I assure you. It's complicated."

Sansa was afraid she didn't want to know the truth, but she doubted they would ever discuss the matter again and she needed answers. "I would like to know anyway, no matter how bad it is."

Tyrion sighed. He looked up at Sansa again, his eyes deep with regret. "There were two reasons I remained celibate all that time. The first was . . . was Shae."

Hearing Shae's name on Tyrion's lips was excruciatingly painful, but Sansa hid all emotion from her face. She had asked for the truth, and she would have to endure it, no matter how much it hurt.

"You . . . you know what she was," Tyrion went on, his voice thick with emotion. "What she really was. And I couldn't . . . I couldn't set foot inside a brothel without thinking about her, without thinking about what I had done to her. I—" He looked away again, clearly overcome with emotion. It took him a moment before he was able to continue. "I didn't feel I had a right to ever touch a whore again," he said, still unable to meet Sansa's gaze. "I felt I had given up that right the moment I'd strangled the life out of the woman I had once loved."

Sansa bowed her head, staring at the floor, afraid that Tyrion would see the pain in her eyes. She had loved Shae herself, though in a different way than Tyrion, and she still mourned her loss. But that wasn't why Sansa had been forced to look away. She was jealous — so painfully jealous — of a woman her husband had murdered in a fit of passion. It was the most pathetic, most absurd feeling in the world, and Sansa was heartily ashamed of herself. Despite how tragically things had ended between them, Tyrion had loved Shae, and Sansa knew that was more than he had ever felt for her.

Sansa felt Tyrion's eyes upon her again, but she couldn't look up. She wasn't in any state to face him. She felt small and petty and worthless, and once again, she wished that he would just leave so that she could be alone to sort out her emotions before they overwhelmed her.

"I'm sorry, Sansa."

"Why are you sorry?" she asked, her gaze focused on the floor.

"I'm sorry that I'm not the man you wanted me to be. I'm sorry that I'm not the man you deserve."

Sansa shook her head. She inhaled a steadying breath and finally forced herself to look at Tyrion again. "You don't need to apologize for anything. The truth is the truth, and it's better that I should know it than not."

Tyrion nodded. "The truth is not always an easy thing to admit."

"No, it isn't. But it is essential to leading an honorable life. And despite what you've done in the past, owning up to your sins now is the first step to becoming an honorable man."

A wry smile curved Tyrion's lips. "You don't really think I can be an honorable man, do you?"

"I think anything is possible if you want it badly enough."

Tyrion was thoughtful for a moment. "Who knows? That may be true. I suppose we shall just have to wait and see."

"Tell me your second reason."

"What?" Tyrion asked, clearly surprised by the question.

"You said there were two reasons why you remained celibate for so long. What was the second reason?"

Tyrion laughed awkwardly. "Ah, well, that. You see, an hour ago, I would have been wary of confessing it, for fear that you wouldn't believe me. But now that I know you are willing to take me at my word, I have no such qualms, though I do feel a bit silly saying it."

"Saying what?"

"You, Sansa Stark. You. You're the second reason, and perhaps the most important one."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat, and the breath hitched in her throat. She had never expected Tyrion to say such a thing, and she wasn't entirely sure what he meant by it. She didn't want to get her hopes up, but for one brief moment, she just couldn't help herself. "What . . . what do you mean?"

"You're my wife, Sansa. When we were married all those years ago in the Great Sept of Baelor, I covered you with my cloak and vowed to protect you, to be faithful to you. _I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days_," Tyrion said, repeating the words he had spoken before the High Septon. "Or don't you remember?"

"I remember." Sansa had been terrified that day, but she still remembered it as if no time had passed at all. As she'd stood at the altar, she had hoped and prayed that her brother Robb would ride into King's Landing, break down the doors of the sept, and put an end to the marriage before it had even begun. But Robb had never made it to King's Landing, and Sansa had given herself over to Tyrion's protection despite her fears.

"Well," Tyrion said, "I didn't want to dishonor that vow, despite the fact that I wasn't even sure that you were still my wife."

It was no confession of love, of course, but it warmed Sansa's heart all the same. After Tyrion had abandoned her, there had been times when she'd been certain that he'd forgotten all about her, that he'd left all memory of her behind when he'd left Westeros. To know that he had spared a thought for her, on occasion at least, meant a great deal to Sansa. "Does that mean that when you leave here, you will still stay true to that vow?" Sansa asked, fearful of Tyrion's answer.

"You are still my wife, Sansa Stark, and as long as we both still draw breath, I will keep myself only unto you. You have my word."

Sansa was suddenly overcome with emotion. She smiled at Tyrion, but tears pooled in her eyes, nonetheless.

Tyrion laughed. "Does the thought really make you want to weep? I know I'm not the husband of your dreams, but surely, my fidelity means something to you, especially after all this time."

"It means a great deal to me," Sansa replied, her tone solemn. "It means everything."

"Good. I know there isn't much I can give you to make you happy, but at least I can give you that."

Sansa flattened her hands against her stomach, suddenly remembering why they were there in the first place. "There is something else you can give me."

Tyrion smiled softly at her. "I suppose there is, if you still want it."

"I do."

Tyrion nodded. Then, he looked away, gazing nervously about the room as if a great responsibility had suddenly been placed on his shoulders and he didn't quite know how to handle it. "Well, then," he said, finally forcing himself to look at her again. "We should probably get on with it. It's getting late, and we've already spent far too much time talking."

Sansa could have talked all night, actually. After five long years of marriage, she felt close to Tyrion for the very first time. Maybe it was because of his confession, or maybe it was because she finally felt she could trust him. Whatever it was, something had changed between them, and had circumstances been different, Sansa could have stayed up all night just listening to Tyrion talk.

Sansa wiped the tears from her cheeks and finally stood. Her knees ached from sitting on the floor for too long, but she was barely conscious of it. The blood was running fast through her veins, and she could already feel a familiar heat pooling between her legs. She wanted Tyrion more than she had ever wanted him before, and she couldn't wait another moment to be with him.

Tyrion turned around and took off his robe. He draped it over the footboard and climbed up onto the bed. Then, he settled himself beneath the furs, sitting upright on the opposite side of the mattress, giving Sansa room to join him.

Sansa's first instinct was to slip into bed beside him still wearing her nightgown, like a proper lady. But she didn't want to be a proper lady, not tonight, not with Tyrion. She had no shame where he was concerned. He had seen her naked body before, done all manner of unspeakable things to her. She had nothing to hide from him. Except, perhaps, her love. But thankfully, he couldn't see that even if she stripped off every last stitch of clothing. Her heart was still hidden, and it would remain so, until long after Tyrion was gone.

Sansa lifted her fingers and slowly pulled apart the ribbon that held her gown together. She kept her eyes locked with Tyrion's as she pushed the fabric from her shoulders and it slid to the floor. Tyrion instantly broke her gaze, his eyes traveling down the length of her, examining every inch of exposed flesh. Sansa's skin flushed warmly, but she didn't try to hide herself. She liked the feel of Tyrion's eyes upon her. She liked the way he looked at her when she was naked. It made her feel wanted. It made her feel like a woman.

When Tyrion finally met her gaze again, the desire in his eyes was unmistakable. Although they had been together twice before, this was the first time Sansa was sure that Tyrion wanted her. Not Shae, not some whore he'd left behind in a brothel, not some fantasy she couldn't compete with, but her, Sansa Stark. Tyrion wanted her just as much as she wanted him, and it made Sansa's heart soar with hope.

Without another word, Sansa slipped beneath the furs, sitting beside Tyrion. She didn't think it was fair that he should remain clothed while she was fully exposed, so she immediately turned toward him and reached for the hem of his nightshirt. She pushed the fabric upward, grazing his thighs with the backs of her fingers, making Tyrion shiver.

Sansa fought back a smile as she undressed him, drawing the soft linen up over his swollen manhood, and higher still, to expose his chest. Tyrion lifted his arms above his head, and Sansa finally pulled the garment free. She tossed it on the floor behind the bed and took a moment to examine Tyrion in all his naked glory.

Tyrion Lannister was not like other men. Of course, Sansa had always known that. Anyone who looked at him knew that. But just because he wasn't like other men, didn't mean that he was at all unattractive. Though not muscular, his body was lean and compact, not an ounce of fat on him. His chest was covered in a light sprinkling of golden curls that grew denser the farther south Sansa's eyes traveled, and her fingers ached to touch him. Sansa laid her hands flat against his shoulders and then slowly slid them downward, reveling in the feel of the coarse hair against her palms.

Tyrion inhaled a sharp breath, as if her touch had burned him. But Sansa knew it wasn't pain that he felt, only pleasure. The same pleasure she felt whenever he touched her.

Sansa leaned forward, kissing Tyrion's neck as her fingers continued to explore his body. She skimmed one hand down his chest, across his flank, and farther still, to the hardness between his legs, gently stroking his heated flesh.

Tyrion moaned, and Sansa smiled against his neck, happy that she had figured out how to please him. She was no expert on men, but she had spent far too many years fantasizing about lying with her husband again not to have come up with a few ideas about how to please him. She closed her hand lightly around his shaft, stroking up and down his length while she continued to kiss him, enjoying the sounds of pleasure he was making.

"Sansa." Her name sounded as if it had been strangled from his throat. "Sansa, please."

For a moment, Sansa thought Tyrion wanted her to drive him toward release and she quickened her pace. But then, she felt his fingers wrap around her wrist, and a second later, he pulled her hand away and leaned back, breaking all contact between them.

"What's wrong?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion stared up at her with glassy eyes. "I think . . . I think . . . we should slow down," he said between shallow breaths. "Just for a moment."

"Don't you like it when I touch you?" she asked coyly, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

"More than you can imagine."

Sansa reached toward him. "Then maybe I should—"

Tyrion caught her wrist again before she could touch him. "Maybe I should be the one pleasuring you this time."

Sansa couldn't deny that she was intrigued by the idea. "And what exactly did you have in mind?"

A knowing smile quirked Tyrion's lips. "Oh, I have a few ideas. Lie back, and I'll show you."

Sansa didn't offer a single word of protest. She just lay back on the mattress and waited for Tyrion to work his magic.

Tyrion repositioned himself on the bed, moving closer to the headboard and propping himself up on one elbow so that he could look down at her. His eyes swept the entire length of Sansa's body, and she suddenly wished they had dispensed with the furs altogether. She hated the fact that she was half hidden from his view. She liked it when Tyrion looked at her – all of her – and she didn't want to rob either one of them of that pleasure.

When Tyrion's gaze finally returned to her face, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Sansa knew it held unimaginable promise. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss against her lips, making her whole body sing with desire. Instinctively, Sansa's hands moved to the back of his head, drawing him closer and deepening the contact.

Tyrion kissed her until she could barely breathe. Then, he broke away, trailing a line of warm, wet kisses across her jaw and down her neck. Sansa's fingers curled into his hair as liquid heat swirled through her veins. She moaned softly as Tyrion moved lower, placing a row of gentle kisses across her breasts. He stopped at each nipple just long enough to tease it to attention before moving on, driving Sansa mad with need. When he finally pulled away, he sat up and repositioned himself on the bed, moving lower still. He threw the furs aside, pushing them down toward the footboard and exposing every last inch of her naked flesh.

Sansa held her breath, wondering what Tyrion intended to do next. She stole a glance between his legs, startled by just how hard he was, and suddenly, she was desperate to have him inside her again.

Tyrion lay down on his side and leaned forward, focusing his attention on Sansa's breasts. He kissed, nipped, and licked at her over sensitized flesh as his fingers drew delicate circles across her stomach. Sansa shivered, the muscles in her abdomen fluttering in anticipation as he gently teased her.

As Tyrion continued to kiss her breasts, his fingers slowly drifted lower, skimming lightly across her upper thigh. Without a word, he slipped a hand between her legs and began playing with her curls.

Sansa gasped, the sensation far more intimate than she had remembered. It had been five long years since Tyrion had touched her like that, and it made her tremble all over.

Tyrion slid his hand lower and gently pushed apart her folds, running one finger along her length and causing a rush of warmth to flood her sex. Sansa arched her hips upward, desperate to make closer contact, and Tyrion readily obliged. He slipped a single finger inside her, and Sansa inhaled a startled breath. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, just unexpected, and it took her a moment to adjust to it. But once she did, she relaxed again, allowing Tyrion to have his way with her.

Sansa felt Tyrion smile against her belly as he continued to kiss her. He moved inside her with expert finesse, stroking and teasing until she was squirming beneath him. Soon, he added another digit, and Sansa thought her entire body might shatter. She was so close. A few more strokes and she knew he would drive her over the edge. "Please, Tyrion, please," she begged, desperate for release.

But rather than giving her what she wanted, Tyrion pulled his hand away.

Sansa moaned plaintively. "Why did you stop?"

Tyrion looked up at her with an impish grin, but he didn't answer. Instead, he laid a hand on her knee and urged her legs farther apart. Then, he settled himself between them, sitting back on his knees and gazing up at her. Slowly, he leaned forward, dipping his head so he could kiss her stomach again. This time, however, he didn't stop there. He just moved lower and lower until he was pressing soft, chaste kisses against the nest of crimson curls between her legs.

Sansa stared down at Tyrion in silent wonder, hoping and praying that he was going to do what she thought he was going to do. She didn't know a great deal about carnal pleasure beyond the basics of creating a child, but she knew that Tyrion was quite gifted when it came to pleasing women and that she was safe with him.

Without stopping to look up at her, Tyrion continued his path southward, his lips blazing a trail straight to her sex. When he finally kissed her there, Sansa squealed in delight, nearly bucking off the bed. She felt Tyrion smile again, his lips never breaking contact. He kissed her gently, softly, as if he were kissing her mouth, and it was pure ecstasy. Sansa closed her eyes and sank even deeper into the mattress, enjoying the feel of her husband giving her pleasure.

Soon, Tyrion was tasting her with his tongue, caressing her with gentle, even strokes, and Sansa thought she might go mad. With practiced ease, he found the little hidden spot at the top of her sex that always drove her wild and began teasing it. He nipped and licked and sucked, and before Sansa knew what was happening, she was screaming out his name as her body shuddered with pleasure.

For a moment, Sansa wasn't conscious of anything except the delicious warmth spreading through her limbs. She felt tired and sated, and she knew, if she kept her eyes closed long enough, she would just drift off to sleep. But that wasn't what Sansa wanted. She still wanted Tyrion to make love to her properly before the night was through.

When Sansa finally opened her eyes, she found Tyrion lying beside her, his elbow propped up on a pillow so he could look down at her. He had a self-satisfied grin on his face, but Sansa couldn't begrudge him that. Not after what he had done.

"How was that?" Tyrion asked, not even trying to hide his bravado.

"Wonderful," Sansa breathed, the word little more than a whisper.

Tyrion leaned forward and kissed her softly. She could taste her own arousal on his lips, and it made her skin flush warm with embarrassment. Sansa had never imagined allowing a man to do something so impossibly wicked to her, and now that she was slowly drifting back to earth, reality was starting to close in. She wrapped her arms around Tyrion's neck and deepened the kiss, willfully pushing her insecurities aside. She held him close, not wanting to ever let him go.

But the kiss couldn't last forever, and eventually, Tyrion pulled back. The desire in his eyes was still as urgent as it had been when she'd first stripped off her gown for him, and suddenly, Sansa remembered that Tyrion had not yet found his own release.

Her arms still draped loosely about his neck, Sansa asked, "Do you still intend to do your duty tonight?"

"I do."

"Then don't let me keep you waiting. I don't want to prolong your torment any more than I already have."

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, my dear, sweet Sansa, this is the most delicious kind of torment, and I don't mind prolonging it at all. I will take you tonight, don't doubt that, but only when you're ready and not before."

Sansa wasn't quite sure she understood his meaning. "I'm ready now."

"Are you?"

"I . . . I think so."

"Do you want me, Sansa Stark? Is there already a fire burning inside you again, or are you just trying to play the dutiful wife?"

"I've . . . I've already found my pleasure," she said, her voice trembling with uncertainty. "Surely, I'm not capable of doing so again tonight."

A slow smile spread across Tyrion's lips. "Oh, Sansa, how little you know about yourself."

Tyrion lowered his head and kissed her neck, and a fresh wave of warmth flooded Sansa's entire body. His hands glided along her skin with exquisite tenderness, exploring every curve and every valley. He kissed and teased and coaxed until she was moaning beneath him, her body begging for something he had already given her.

Once Sansa was ready, Tyrion wasted no time in crawling between her legs and pushing himself inside her. The last time they had been together, Sansa had been on top, but now, Tyrion was in control, and he claimed her with a passion and urgency that took Sansa's breath away. He wasn't gentle this time. He was rough and demanding, taking what he wanted and leaving her mewling with pleasure.

Tyrion knew exactly what he was doing, and it wasn't long before Sansa was trembling in ecstasy again, her body quivering with release. Tyrion continued to thrust into her at a frenzied pace, his fingers digging painfully into her hips, but Sansa barely noticed. All she was conscious of was the delicious warmth in her bones and the feel of Tyrion moving inside her.

A few more thrusts, and suddenly, her name tore from Tyrion's throat and he shuddered against her. He spilled his seed deep in her belly, and Sansa couldn't help but wonder if, this time, it was finally going to take root.

Tyrion collapsed against her, resting his head in the valley between her breasts, and Sansa reached up to gently stroke his hair. Her arms were shaking, but it didn't matter. She wanted to touch him, needed to touch him. She had waited so long to be close to him again, and she wanted to cherish every moment of it.

When Tyrion finally caught his breath, he pulled out of her and tried to move away, but Sansa wouldn't let him go.

"Stay with me, please," she said. "I know it's not what you want, but—"

"Of course it's what I want."

Sansa slackened her hold on him, and Tyrion pushed himself up just enough so that he could look at her. Their eyes met, and Sansa held her breath, hoping beyond hope that he'd meant what he had said. "You don't have to—"

Tyrion shook his head, cutting her off. "Sansa Stark, when are you going to realize just how much I want you? I wouldn't leave this bed for all the wine in Westeros."

A tentative smile tugged at Sansa's lips. She knew that Tyrion didn't love her, but it was nice to hear him say that he wanted her. It was the first time he had said it, and it warmed her heart more than she had ever imagined possible.

"But I think," Tyrion continued, "that you would be a lot more comfortable without my weight crushing you. I may look small, but trust me, you'll be thankful for this in the morning." And then, without another word, Tyrion pushed himself off of her and lay back against the mattress.

The instant Tyrion let her go, the cool evening air kissed her skin and Sansa shivered. She sat up just far enough to retrieve the furs, then lay down by Tyrion's side, covering them both.

Tyrion held an arm out toward her. "Come, wife. Lie with me tonight."

Sansa curled up next to him, laying her head against his chest. As soon as she was settled, he wrapped his arms around her and lightly kissed the top of her head.

"Sleep," he said. "You've earned it. You were a very good Lady of Winterfell tonight. You did your duty admirably, and now, you deserve your rest."

It was more than duty, of course, that had compelled Sansa to invite Tyrion to her bed, and they both knew it. "I'm not the only one who did an admirable job of fulfilling their duty tonight."

"Well, thank you," Tyrion said, clearly amused. "I may not be good with a sword, but at least there's one thing I can do to protect the future of Winterfell." He kissed the crown of her head again and began stroking her hair. "Now, get some rest, my Lady Lannister. You've had enough excitement for one night."

Sansa closed her eyes, sighing contentedly. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so safe and so loved. Of course, she knew that Tyrion didn't actually love her, but with his arms around her and her eyes closed, it was easy to pretend that he did. She listened to the sound of his heartbeat thudding against her ear as she slowly drifted off to sleep.


	32. Chapter 31

Author's Note: This chapter took a great deal longer to edit than I had hoped. I'm so sorry it's late. I have yet to start editing the next chapter, and I have no idea how long that one is going to take. If I can, I will have it posted next Monday, but it may take longer a little longer. Thank you all for your patience.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-one

Tyrion slept so soundly that night that he didn't even dream. It was a welcome change from the nightmares he was used to, and he had no desire to open his eyes when morning came. He could feel Sansa still wrapped in his arms, her breath shallow, her skin warm against his own. His right arm had gone numb sometime during the night, but he didn't care. He refused to move even an inch until she awoke. He didn't want to do anything to disturb her peace or to break the spell they were both under.

The night before had been a revelation! Although Tyrion hadn't doubted that he would find pleasure in Sansa's arms, he had never expected to find true intimacy. But once he'd sworn his fidelity on his mother's bones, everything had changed. Now, there was trust between him and Sansa again, something that had seemed impossible just a day before. Of course, it had come at a steep price, but Tyrion was glad for it. He hadn't wanted to keep fighting with Sansa. He had wanted to love her. And last night, he'd finally gotten his chance.

Tyrion opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, his fingers absently stroking Sansa's hair. He loved everything about her: her beauty, her bravery, her spirit. She was everything that he wasn't. She was good and kind and pure of heart. Tyrion wished he could be more like Sansa, but the world had left him far too jaded for that. When he'd been young, long before he'd ever set foot in King's Landing, he'd been something of an idealist himself, a dreamer like Sansa. But that had been a long time ago. It had been ages since Tyrion had believed in anything, but lying there in Sansa's bed, holding her in his arms, he could almost believe that the world was a beautiful place and that lovely young maidens could fall in love with bitter old dwarves.

And for the first time in his life, Tyrion felt like he truly belonged somewhere, like he was wanted. He had a family now, his own family, independent of his father and sister. He had a wonderful wife, a loving son. Even a pain-in-the-ass sister-in-law. It was everything he had ever wanted, even if he hadn't quite known it. He was happy for the first time in a long time, and he was afraid that something was going to ruin it. Sansa was still expecting him to leave for Casterly Rock at the end of the month. But what if he didn't? What if he decided to stay? Would she be amenable to the idea, or would it just cause more strife between them? After all, if he stayed, Winterfell would be his to command. Could Sansa truly give up her autonomy, or would she resent him for taking what was rightfully hers?

Tyrion didn't even want to think about it. There would be time to settle all of that before the month was through. For now, he just wanted to lie in bed and cherish the feel of his wife sleeping soundly in his arms. It was a dream from which he never wanted to wake. But unfortunately, the gods had other plans.

Tyrion heard footsteps racing down the corridor outside Sansa's bedchamber. Before he could even comprehend whose footsteps they were, the door burst open and Eddard barreled into the room, hurling himself at the bed with a running jump. "Good morning!" he shouted as he landed on top of both his parents.

Sansa was instantly awake. "Eddard!" she shrieked, clutching the furs and pulling them all the way up to her chin.

Tyrion sat up, grabbing Eddard about the waist and pulling him onto his lap so that Sansa could make a hasty retreat. She moved to the other side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, her nakedness still shielded by the covers.

"What do you think you're doing?" Tyrion scolded. "That's no way to wake your mother."

"But Aunt Arya said I could."

Tyrion's eyes darted to the open doorway. There, casually leaning up against the doorjamb, was Arya, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

"Oh, did she now?" Tyrion asked, his eyes never leaving Arya.

"She did. She said I should wake you both."

"Arya!" Sansa exclaimed, clearly horrified by her sister's behavior.

Arya just shrugged. "It's late. You've missed breakfast. We couldn't let you sleep the day away. Someone had to wake you."

"But not Eddard. Not like this."

Tyrion turned to look at Sansa. Her cheeks were bright red, and he could tell that she was utterly mortified. He knew he had to do something to save her before things got any worse, so he turned his attention back to Eddard. "Eddard, have you had your breakfast?"

Eddard nodded emphatically, his unruly curls bobbing all around his head.

"And have you had your morning sparring lesson with your Aunt Arya yet?"

"No, not yet. She wanted to wake you first."

"Well, we're awake now. You've done your duty like a good little lordling. You should get on with your training. All right?"

"But I'd rather stay and cuddle with you." Then, without warning, Eddard squirmed from Tyrion's arms and tried to slip beneath the furs.

"No!" Sansa cried, clamping her hands down on either side of her body, holding the furs flat against the mattress to bar Eddard's way.

Tyrion grabbed the boy again, hoisting him up and planting him firmly on his lap. He held Eddard even tighter this time. "Your mother said no. That means no."

"But—"

"No, Eddard. You are to go to the yard and train with your Aunt Arya. That's an order. Do you understand?"

Eddard looked like he was on the verge of tears, and it almost broke Tyrion's heart. He had never disciplined the boy before, had never really felt it was his place. But now that he knew that Eddard was his trueborn son, he had to start acting like a real parent. He would be firm but gentle. Whatever he did, he would always be a kinder, more understanding father than Tywin Lannister. Had circumstances been different, Tyrion would have happily allowed Eddard to join them in bed, but both he and Sansa were still naked beneath the covers and it would have been highly inappropriate. So Tyrion remained stalwart. He turned his attention to Arya and said, "Lady Arya, please take Eddard out into the yard. I believe you've had enough fun for one day."

Arya's expression didn't change one bit. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. She had embarrassed them both, and she looked mighty pleased with herself. She held out a hand toward the bed. "Come, Eddard. Your lord father has given you a command, and apparently, you must obey."

Tyrion saw Eddard warring with himself. He could tell that the boy wanted to whine, to throw a tantrum to get his way, but he was the future Lord of Winterfell and his mother had taught him that his duty was more important than his own personal desires. Eventually, Eddard gave in and turned away from Tyrion, slipping from his arms and sliding off the bed to the floor. He walked toward Arya with slow, anguished steps, as if the weight of the world had been laid on his shoulders. He purposefully ignored both his parents, and Tyrion was quite impressed by just how dramatic he could be when he put his mind to it.

Eddard walked past Arya and straight out the door. The instant he was over the threshold, he sped down the corridor, no doubt headed to the yard on his own.

Arya raised an eyebrow, giving Tyrion a knowing look, but she didn't say anything more. She just closed the door behind her, leaving Tyrion and Sansa in awkward silence.

Tyrion turned to look at his wife. She was staring into the empty hearth, the fire having burned out hours ago. Her skin was still tinged pink, and he didn't think he had ever seen her look more mortified.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Tyrion said softly, not knowing what else to say. "Would you like me to leave?"

Sansa turned her head, finally looking at him. She seemed surprised by the question. "Why would I want you to leave?"

Tyrion inhaled a long, slow breath, trying to think of a suitable answer. "I just thought that, perhaps, now that it's morning, you would like your privacy so that you can call your handmaiden to help you get ready for the day."

"Oh." The word was so small, and yet, so full of disappointment.

"Unless, of course, you'd prefer that I stay. I know we have work to do today, but it can't be that late." Tyrion glanced at the unshuttered windows, trying to discern the position of the sun. As far as he could tell, it was just after breakfast. When he looked at Sansa again, he said, "I imagine we have at least an hour before we have to be in the Great Hall."

"I would like you to stay, please."

Tyrion's heart swelled with joy, but he refused to let it show on his face. He didn't want Sansa to think he was getting his hopes up.

"In that case," Tyrion said, "what is it that you would like me to do? I can call for breakfast, if you like, since we seem to have missed it."

Sansa shook her head. "No, that's not what I want."

The air stilled in Tyrion's lungs as he stared up into his wife's striking blue eyes, hoping that _he_ was the thing she wanted. "Then, what do you want?" he asked, surprised that his voice wasn't trembling.

"To lie with you a little longer, if that's all right."

Tyrion sighed in relief. "Yes, of course, that's fine." He lay back down on the bed, adjusting his position so that he could rest his head on the pillows.

Sansa finally let go of the furs, snuggling up next to him and resting her head against his chest. Tyrion could feel the heat of her flushed cheek against his own cool skin, and it felt wonderful! It felt wonderful to finally have her in his arms and to be able to comfort her after so many years of not having been there for her.

"Is your sister always like that?" Tyrion asked as he lazily ran his fingertips up and down her bare arm.

"Only every other day. She loves to torture and embarrass me. She always has."

"Yes, I remember," Tyrion said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

"You remember?" Sansa propped herself up on one elbow so that she could look down at him. "What do you mean, you remember? Before you returned to Winterfell, you hardly ever saw us together. In fact, I don't think you even noticed either one of us when you first visited Winterfell all those years ago."

"I'm not talking about when I first visited Winterfell. I'm talking about what you told me that day in the garden. Remember? Sheep shift?"

Sansa's cheeks burned an even darker crimson, and Tyrion was certain she remembered the moment quite clearly. "I honestly thought—"

"Yes, I know what you thought, and it was absolutely adorable."

"I was such a silly, naïve little girl. I've learned a lot since then."

"Yes, you have."

Sansa gazed down at Tyrion's chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns against his skin. "You've taught me a great deal. You know that, don't you?"

Tyrion exhaled a shaky breath. "I've taught you a lot of painful lessons. I'm sorry about that."

"Life has taught me a lot of painful lessons. It's not just you."

"Sansa." Tyrion reached out, taking her hand and stilling her fingers. "Look at me, please."

Sansa raised her eyes to Tyrion's. There was pain there, a pain he knew had nothing to do with him. A deeper pain than anything she had suffered at his hands.

There was something that Tyrion had wanted to ask Sansa for some time, but the moment had never presented itself before. But now was his chance. "Tell me something, Sansa. Tell me what Littlefinger did to you."

Sansa tried to pull her hand away, but Tyrion refused to let her go. He knew he was asking a great deal, but he needed to know the truth. He had abandoned her five long years ago, run off to Essos to protect himself, without ever looking back. It was his fault that Littlefinger had absconded with her and his fault that she'd been left to find her way back to Winterfell on her own.

"I don't . . . I don't want to talk about it," Sansa said. "I can't."

Tyrion's hand tensed around Sansa's, fear of what she must have suffered overwhelming him for a moment. She had never given him the slightest indication that Littlefinger had abused her in any way, but now, Tyrion worried that she had endured more than he had ever imagined. He didn't want to push her too far, but there were things he needed to know.

"Sansa—"

"Please, Tyrion. Not this. I . . . I just want to forget all of it. It's like a nightmare I can't wake from, and I try never to think about it."

"Don't you think it might help to talk?"

Sansa shook her head. "No. It was a dark time in my life. Everything that happened after I left Winterfell was dark and tragic and traumatic. I've moved on from that now, and I don't ever let myself dwell on the past. If I did, I might crumble under the weight of it."

Tyrion stared up into Sansa's eyes, stunned silent by her words. Although she wouldn't tell him what had happened with Littlefinger, she had shared something else with him, a little piece of herself that she had never shared before, and it meant more to Tyrion than he could ever express. He let go of her fingers and reached up to gently stroke her hair. She was so beautiful, and at moments like this, so impossibly vulnerable. He was so used to her pretending to be strong that seeing her like this touched him deeply. It made him want to protect her, to shield and comfort her, for the rest of his days.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," Tyrion said softly. "I wish I could have spared you some of that pain."

"You did. You protected me from Joffrey. Had you not bedded me when I asked you to, he might have forced himself on me and Eddard might have been his child, not yours. And for that alone, I will always be grateful to you."

It seemed such a ridiculous thing for her to be grateful for. She had asked him to bed her, and he had done it, not because he was some noble knight, but because he was a man and she was a beautiful woman and he'd selfishly wanted her even then. There was nothing altruistic in what he'd done, no matter how much she had romanticized their encounter in the intervening years.

"I'm glad that I was able to give you what you needed at the time," Tyrion said, not sure how else to respond.

"You did. And that's exactly what you're doing now, giving me what I need."

"A baby. Yes, I know."

Sansa didn't say anything. She stared at Tyrion for a long moment, then leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against his lips. When she broke away, she lowered herself back down to the bed, resting her head against his chest again and sighing contentedly.

Tyrion continued to stroke Sansa's hair. He liked being close to her. He liked touching her, even in innocent ways. Just having her in his arms gave him greater joy than he had ever known. And now, more than ever, he wished that he had believed her about Eddard from the first day of his arrival. It would have saved them both a lot of heartache, and they could have spent more time making love and less time arguing.

Sansa was quiet for so long that Tyrion thought she might have fallen asleep, but suddenly, she surprised him by breaking the silence, her words low and quiet. So quiet, in fact, that if she hadn't been lying so close to him, he wouldn't have heard them at all. "He sent someone to fetch me at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding," she said.

Tyrion's whole body tensed, and he silently prayed that Sansa hadn't noticed. She was talking about Littlefinger, that much was obvious, and he didn't want to give her any reason to stop. He wanted to know everything.

"Ser Dontos," Sansa continued. "I should have known then that Littlefinger was involved in Joffrey's murder. Why else would he have had an escape already planned for me? But I was young and stupid. Mostly stupid. I followed him blindly, believed every word he said. He killed Ser Dontos right in front of me. Told me the man was a liar who only wanted to do me harm. But he wasn't the only one who was a liar. I just didn't know it then."

Sansa's fingers began to move against Tyrion's chest again, skimming lightly along his flesh, but he barely felt it. Every nerve in his body was fixated on Sansa's voice, waiting in painful anticipation of what was to come.

"He took me to the Eyrie, and once we were there, he married and murdered my Aunt Lysa. And still, I trusted him," Sansa said, her voice breaking with emotion. "I trusted him. He wanted to marry me off to Roose Bolton's bastard – Roose Bolton, who had already taken Winterfell for himself. Littlefinger was furious when he learned that I was pregnant and that his plans had been thwarted. He pretended he wasn't, but I could tell that he was. He hated Eddard, wouldn't even look at him, thought he looked too much like a Lannister and not enough like a Stark. In retrospect, I'm surprised he didn't try to kill Eddard. But perhaps he knew I'd never recover from such a loss. Or perhaps he wanted to keep Eddard alive in hopes that he might one day inherit Casterly Rock."

Tyrion didn't want to know what Littlefinger's plans for Eddard had been. The very thought made the blood burn in his veins, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He listened to Sansa without interrupting, still rhythmically caressing her hair. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted her to feel like she wasn't being judged, like she could tell him anything.

"When Jon came and we were finally able to retake Winterfell, Littlefinger became my trusted advisor. I thought he was my friend. I thought he cared about me and the fate of my entire family, but I couldn't have been more wrong. He tried to turn me against Arya, and I almost let him because, even though I was a grown woman, a mother and the Lady of Winterfell, I was still a stupid little girl who trusted Littlefinger implicitly. If it hadn't been for Bran—" Sansa inhaled a shuddering breath, and Tyrion finally realized that she was fighting back tears. "If it hadn't been for Bran, if he hadn't told me the truth, I would have kept on believing Littlefinger, and I might have destroyed my own family in the process."

Sansa stopped then, her hand stilling against Tyrion's chest. Her breathing was uneven, and he knew she was in distress. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he struggled to find the words. What could he say that wouldn't make matters worse? She obviously felt as if everything that had ever happened to her at Littlefinger's hands was her own fault. She blamed herself for not having realized the truth sooner, but as far as Tyrion was concerned, she was completely blameless.

"It isn't your fault," Tyrion said. "You know that, don't you? You couldn't have known."

"Oh, yes, I could have. I just refused to see what was right in front of me because I didn't want to. I didn't want to think ill of Littlefinger. He had been a friend of my mother's, and I thought . . . well, I thought he cared about her and me, but of course, I was wrong."

"And yet, you survived, and here you are now, the Lady of Winterfell. Things could have been considerably worse."

"Yes, but they could also have been considerably better. I'll never forget the lessons Littlefinger taught me, and I'll never forgive myself for believing in him either. He tried to kill my brother. He murdered my aunt. He betrayed my father. He started the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters. Every terrible thing that has ever happened to me has been a direct result of Littlefinger's machinations, and I would never have even seen it if it wasn't for Bran. Sometimes, I don't think I am fit to be the Lady of Winterfell. Sometimes, I feel like little more than an imposter."

Tyrion finally stopped stroking Sansa's hair. He wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly. "You're not an imposter, Sansa. You have every right to be called the Lady of Winterfell. You are every bit the lady that your mother was, and I know she would be proud of you if she could see you now."

Sansa shook her head. "No. My mother was a smart, shrewd woman. She would never have been deceived as I was. I am not worthy to stand in her stead."

Tyrion wondered if he should point out that Catelyn Stark had been deceived by Littlefinger as well, but he feared that Sansa would take it as a slight against her beloved mother and not simply as an illustration of the extent of Lord Baelish's treachery. "Your mother was an admirable woman," Tyrion said, treading carefully, "but she trusted Littlefinger just as you did. She had no reason not to trust him."

"But I had reason not to trust him. I had more than enough reason. Even when he . . ." Sansa buried her face against Tyrion's chest and groaned in frustration, refusing to finish the thought.

But Tyrion needed to know what she'd been going to say. "Even when he what?"

Sansa shook her head again. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does matter." Tyrion loosened his arms around her, hoping that she might draw back and look at him again. "Sansa, look at me, please."

"No." She turned her head so that her cheek was flat against his chest again, gazing off somewhere into the distance. "I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I am guilty of what I accused you of, and I hate myself for it."

Tyrion's blood instantly flushed cold. His limbs felt weak, and had he been standing, he was sure he would have collapsed. Had Sansa lain with Littlefinger after all? She had sworn on her father's bones that no other man had ever shared her bed, but now, her words seemed to contradict that vow. Was it true? And if it was, why had she chosen to tell him now?

"What . . . what do you mean?" Tyrion asked, his voice trembling despite his best efforts.

"I was unfaithful, though I didn't mean to be. I didn't want to be. But Littlefinger didn't seem to care that I was married. He said that you were never coming back for me, so it didn't matter."

The breath caught in Tyrion's throat, and he lay there deathly still. Everything he'd thought he knew about his wife was suddenly thrown into question, and the shock was overpowering. She had said that she hadn't meant to be unfaithful, that she hadn't wanted to be unfaithful. Had Littlefinger forced her? Had he raped her and let her believe that it was her fault? Tyrion hoped that wasn't the case. As devastated as he was by the idea of Sansa giving herself to Petyr Baelish, he knew he would be even more devastated to discover that Littlefinger had forced her against her will.

"Sansa—"

"I'm sorry, Tyrion. I didn't mean for it to happen. I really didn't. But I never expected him to kiss me, not while we were in the Vale, not after he had married my Aunt Lysa. But he came to me in the garden one afternoon, and suddenly, he was kissing me, and I just stood there and I let him. I was so in shock that I just let him."

"And then?" Tyrion asked, afraid to even say the words.

"And then, he did it again in the crypts beneath Winterfell. I don't know what he truly wanted from me. Bran says he loved mother and that's why he did it, but it seems a sick, twisted reason to make a married woman break her vows."

Tyrion was confused. He was waiting for something more, but Sansa's story seemed to have ended, and he was left with more questions than answers. "Sansa?" he asked, his tone far less strained than before, "what else did Littlefinger do to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you said you were unfaithful. Did you lie with him?"

"What?" Sansa finally pulled back so that she could look down at Tyrion. "How can you even ask that?"

"You said you were unfaithful."

"Yes, I broke my vow. I let another man kiss me. If that isn't breaking faith, I don't know what is."

Tyrion suddenly laughed, unable to stop himself.

"It isn't funny," Sansa said, a scowl marring her pretty face.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. I have dishonored myself, and I can never make it up to you."

Tyrion smiled at her softly. She was so impossibly sweet and earnest. Everything about her was endearing, and he couldn't have loved her more at that moment if he had tried. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Sansa. They were just stolen kisses, nothing more. I thought you meant that Littlefinger had bedded you. In fact, for a moment, I thought perhaps he had forced you."

"No, never. He never went that far, and I never would have allowed it. I wish I had stopped him from kissing me, but—"

"Don't," Tyrion said. "It's not your fault. I know how manipulative Lord Baelish could be."

"But you have been faithful to me, and I have betrayed you."

Tyrion screwed up his face in distaste, wondering if he should tell Sansa the absolute truth since they were both being so brutally honest with each other. Honesty in a relationship was a novelty for Tyrion, and he was tempted to see just how far he could go before Sansa threw him out of her bed. "Well," he said, deciding to test his fortune, "that isn't entirely true."

"You mean you have kissed someone else since we've been wed."

"No, no, not that," Tyrion said, trying to find the words to explain. "But I have . . . touched another woman since we've been wed, though it wasn't my intention to do so either."

Sansa looked away, staring at his chest with a blank expression. "It was Shae, wasn't it?"

"It was. She tried to seduce me, but I resisted. For a lot of reasons. After that, I tried to send her away. Cersei knew that I had someone, that I'd been involved with someone before we were wed, and if she had discovered it was Shae, she would have had her killed." Tyrion laughed bitterly. "Ironic, isn't it? There I was, worrying about Cersei killing Shae when I was the one who would ultimately end her life. I think I may be the one who is unworthy of their position here at Winterfell."

Tyrion suddenly felt uncomfortable being in Sansa's bed. After everything he had done, he didn't feel worthy of being in her presence any longer. He let go of her and quietly slipped from the mattress, reaching the floor before she could even speak.

"Where are you going?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion turned around to look up at her. She was sitting on the bed now, holding the covers up against her chest. Her face was flushed and her eyes looked pained, and he wondered if she was hurt because he was leaving or because she felt betrayed.

"It's getting late," Tyrion said, "and I think we've both had enough truth for one morning. If you will excuse me, my lady."

Tyrion didn't wait for a reply. He turned away and searched the floor for his nightshirt, knowing he couldn't walk the halls of Winterfell without a stitch of clothing on. When he finally found it, he shrugged it over his head with a defeated sigh. Then, he turned back toward the bed and retrieved his robe, slipping it on as well. When he finally looked up at Sansa again, he realized that she hadn't moved an inch, and he knew she'd been watching him the entire time.

"I'm sorry, Sansa. Truly, I am. I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter," she said. And at first, Tyrion wasn't quite sure what she meant. He thought she meant his apology, but he soon discovered he was wrong. "What happened back in the Red Keep doesn't matter. You said you didn't lie with Shae after we were wed?"

"I didn't."

"Then there is no harm done."

Tyrion stepped toward the bed. He reached for Sansa's hands, taking them in his own, and he was surprised when she didn't pull away. "There is only no harm done if you concede that your supposed infidelity wasn't much of an infidelity either."

"But I—"

"No. You can't have it both ways. Either we're both miserable cheats, or neither one of us is. That's it. There's not one moral standard for you and another for me. All right?"

Sansa nodded. "All right."

"Good." Tyrion lifted her right hand and placed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. Then, he did the same with her left hand. "Now," he said, looking up at her again. "I must leave you. We've lingered here far too long, and the hour is waning. We do have responsibilities we both must tend to. I will see you in the Great Hall in a little while."

Tyrion tried to pull his hands away, but Sansa wouldn't let him go.

"What is it?" he asked, fearing that something had gone horribly wrong.

"There's something I need from you before you go."

Tyrion stared up at her quizzically. "Name it, my lady, and it is yours."

"This," Sansa said, leaning forward and kissing him softly.

Tyrion's whole body flushed with warmth, and his cock began to stir. He wished he had the time to love her properly, but the morning was already slipping away.

When Sansa pulled back, there was an unmistakable fire in her eyes, and Tyrion knew that if he climbed back into bed, they'd spend the rest of the morning making love. But he resisted the urge, knowing they had more pressing duties to attend to.

"Yes, well," Tyrion said, nearly tripping over the words, "I will see you in the Great Hall."

"Until then, my lord."

"Until then."

Tyrion turned around quickly, before his treacherous body could make him do something stupid. He crossed the room without another glance back, knowing that if he so much as caught another glimpse of his wife, he'd end up in her bed again. He left the room quietly, resisting the urge to stop in the hall to catch his breath. Everything had changed between him and Sansa since he'd entered her room the night before, and he was still reeling from it. He didn't know what it all meant exactly, but it could only be for the better, even if she still expected him to leave at the end of the month.

Tyrion headed straight for his room, his legs shaking, his knees weak. He was so desperately in love with his wife that he almost felt giddy. He wished he could tell her, but he feared the words would scare her away. He would bide his time and see if her feelings for him changed. There was more than a fortnight left before he was scheduled to leave. Perhaps, in the intervening days, he could convince Sansa to let him stay. Or better yet, maybe she would ask him to stay of her own accord. It was no longer beyond the realm of possibility, and Tyrion chose to hope for the best. He wasn't used to being optimistic anymore, but under the circumstances, he couldn't quite help himself. He felt closer to Sansa now than he ever had before, and he was starting to believe that they just might get their happy ending after all.


	33. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-two

That morning, everything changed for Sansa and Tyrion. When she saw him a little while later in the Great Hall, there was a marked difference between them, an easiness, a familiarity, that hadn't been there before. It carried over into everything they did together, and for the next fortnight, they lived a happy, peaceful life.

Sansa stopped avoiding Tyrion, and instead, went out of her way to seek his company whenever she could. They took meals together, went for walks in the godswood, watched little Eddard playing in the yard. At night, when the rest of the keep was quiet, Tyrion would come to her. He would climb into her bed and make love to her until they were both too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

And some nights, Eddard would steal into bed with them before they could protest, snuggle beneath the furs, and demand a bedtime story. Sansa didn't mind the intrusion though, and she was certain that Tyrion didn't either. They would lie in bed together, the three of them, a happy little family, and Tyrion would regale Sansa and Eddard with stories of dragons and magic and the First Men. Sansa loved Tyrion's stories just as much as Eddard did, and nothing made her happier than falling asleep beside her husband, their son wrapped in her arms.

Sansa had never imagined that her life could be so perfect, and it scared her just a little. She had yet to ask Tyrion if he intended to stay at Winterfell, but she knew she couldn't put it off forever. With every day that passed, his departure grew closer, and soon, she would have no choice but to ask him. Sansa feared his answer more than she had ever imagined possible. She didn't want Tyrion to leave again, but he had given her no indication that he intended to stay. Every morning, Sansa awoke, determined to finally ask him. And every day, her courage failed her. She didn't want to ruin their perfect little dream. She knew it couldn't last forever, but she didn't want to be the one to break the spell.

But the spell broke on its own.

Early one morning, as Sansa lay snuggled beneath the furs with Tyrion, she was suddenly overcome by a terrible wave of nausea. Without conscious thought, she slipped from the bed and grabbed her robe, shrugging into it before falling to her knees and reaching for the chamber pot. She retched out the contents of her stomach, struggling to stay quiet, lest she wake Tyrion. There was nothing ladylike about her current situation, and she didn't want him to see her in such a state.

But Sansa couldn't hide her sickness any more than she could stop herself from retching, and Tyrion was awake before she knew it.

"Sansa? What's wrong?"

Sansa was too ill to answer him, and an instant later, he was off the bed and on his knees beside her.

"Sansa, what do you need?" Tyrion asked, his voice trembling. "Tell me, do you want me to get Maester Wolkan?"

But Sansa still couldn't reply. She couldn't even shake her head in answer. All she could do was hover over the chamber pot, waiting for the next wave of nausea to overtake her.

"I'm going to get Maester Wolkan," Tyrion said.

"No!" Sansa reached out, grabbing Tyrion's wrist and stopping him. The movement alone was enough to make her sick again, but she took a few long, slow breaths, and eventually, the queasiness subsided.

"Are you sure? Because you look positively dreadful. And if it's poison—"

"It's not poison."

"How can you be sure?"

Sansa was sure because she had been through this once before, when she'd been pregnant with Eddard. She'd started feeling the changes in her own body a few days earlier, but she'd chosen to ignore them. Her breasts were more tender, her nipples a little duskier. She was tired all the time, and there was an incessant ache in her lower back that had nothing to do with the time she and Tyrion spent in bed together. She knew the signs well enough, but she hadn't wanted to acknowledge them. Although she desperately wanted another child, being pregnant meant that her time with Tyrion was nearly at an end. Now that she was going to have a baby, there would be no reason for him to visit her bed again, and soon enough, he'd be on his way to Casterly Rock.

Sansa slumped back against the bed behind her, crooking her legs to one side so that she was no longer sitting on her knees. She leaned her head back against the mattress and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to make sure that the worst of it was over.

She heard Tyrion rise, and at first, she feared that he was headed to find Maester Wolkan, but he didn't even leave the room. Instead, much to Sansa's relief, he returned to her a few minutes later and settled before her on the floor.

"Here," Tyrion said, "drink this. If you sip it, it might make you feel better."

Sansa opened her eyes to find Tyrion offering her a glass of water. She reached out, taking it from him with trembling hands. "Thank you."

"I'm sure Maester Wolkan can suggest something more medicinal later, but for now, this is the best I can do. Oh," Tyrion said, almost forgetting something, "and this."

Tyrion offered her a damp cloth, and Sansa took it gladly, slowly sweeping it over her face and across her neck. Her skin was hot, and the cool cloth made her feel slightly less ill. She secretly wished that Tyrion would leave the room and let her suffer in peace, but she knew by the concerned look on his face that he had no intention of going, unless it was to run and fetch help.

Sansa laid the cloth over the back of her neck with a thankful sigh. Then, she slowly sipped the water, washing the taste of sickness from her mouth. The nausea was starting to subside a bit, though she knew it could return at any moment. She was in no condition to even pull herself up onto the bed again, so she stayed right where she was, content to spend the rest of the morning on the floor if she had to.

"Sansa," Tyrion said her name softly, obviously wary of making things worse.

Sansa lowered her glass and looked up at him, knowing she couldn't keep the truth from him forever.

"What's wrong?" Tyrion asked. "You said you know it's not poison. What do you think it is?"

It amazed Sansa that a man who was so wise in the ways of the world couldn't recognize the very clear symptoms of pregnancy. "I'm not ill," she said, her voice a little hoarse. "I'm with child."

Tyrion searched Sansa's face in silent disbelief. He shook his head as if he could scarcely comprehend her words. "Are . . . are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I had the same symptoms with Eddard. I'm going to have a baby."

In an instant, the look on Tyrion's face changed from deep concern to pure joy. He beamed up at her, happier than she had ever seen him, and Sansa's heart swelled with a joy all her own, even though it was bittersweet.

"I can't believe it," Tyrion said. "I mean, I can – gods know, we've spent more time in bed these past few weeks than we've spent out of it – but still, a baby. Our baby. I can't . . . I don't even have the words."

A small smile pulled at Sansa's lips. She hadn't expected Tyrion to be so happy about the baby. She had thought he was only trying to get her pregnant to fulfill his duty. It had never once occurred to her that he might actually want another child too. Maybe now, he wouldn't be so keen to leave. Maybe now, he'd finally have a reason to stay.

"What can I do for you?" Tyrion asked, clearly eager to do whatever he could to help. "Let me get you a pillow. You must be terribly uncomfortable."

Tyrion was on his feet before Sansa could stop him. A moment later, he offered her one of the pillows from the bed.

"Thank you," Sansa said as she took the pillow and tucked it beneath her bottom so that she was no longer sitting on the cold, hard floor.

"Is there anything else you need? Tea, soup, your back rubbed, your feet rubbed?"

Sansa laughed. "No, there's nothing I need right now. I'm fine. This will pass soon enough, and then I'll be fine for the rest of the day."

"Really?" Tyrion asked, clearly not quite believing her.

"Yes, really." Sansa held out her hand to him. "Come. Sit beside me for a minute. That's all I need."

Tyrion took Sansa's hand, sinking to the floor by her side and leaning back against the bed. Sansa refused to let go of his hand, but Tyrion didn't protest. It felt good just to be near him, even if she was still feeling a little ill.

They were both quiet for some time, just enjoying being close to each other. But eventually, Tyrion broke the silence. "Do you know what you want to name the baby?"

Sansa was surprised by the question. "I hadn't really thought about it. I hadn't gotten that far. What do you think we should name the baby?"

"Well, if it's a boy, we could name him just about anything. Robb, Rickon, Jon, Jaime—"

"Tyrion."

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, good gods, no! Let's not do that to the poor child."

"What about Joffrey?" Sansa asked, trying to think of something that Tyrion would hate even more than his own name.

"Joffrey?"

Tyrion turned his head, looking up at her in utter horror, and Sansa couldn't help but laugh.

"Well," she said, "he was a king, after all. There's no shame in naming our son after a king, is there?"

"If you're so keen to name our son after a maniacal ruler, why not just name him after Aerys Targaryen?"

Sansa giggled, the movement making her just a little bit queasy, but she held her breath for a moment, and the nausea passed. "I don't think I like that."

"How about Loras?" Tyrion asked. "We can name him after your dream lover. Maybe he'll grow up to prefer men in his bed just as Ser Loras did."

"Did he?" Long after leaving King's Landing, Sansa had heard rumors that the High Sparrow had forced Loras Tyrell to confess to having relations with other men, but Sansa had found his confession difficult to believe. Loras had once been the most dashing knight in all of Westeros, and Sansa could scarce imagine him preferring the company of men.

Tyrion laughed. "You may be all grown up, Sansa Stark—"

"Sansa Lannister," she corrected.

"Forgive me, Sansa Lannister. You may be all grown up, but you're still just as naïve as the day I married you. You are quite the marvel, I must say."

Sansa knew that Tyrion was only teasing her, but she was still slightly offended. "I am not naïve."

"Oh, yes, you are. Even after all these years, you still believe that Loras Tyrell was as enamored with the ladies as they were with him."

"You really expect me to believe that the most dashing knight in all of Westeros had no interest in the fairer sex?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to believe. Ser Loras much preferred spending his nights with Renly Baratheon than with any fair maiden. Just be glad you didn't marry him. You would have ended up childless, and you never would have known the pleasure of a man's touch." Tyrion sighed dramatically. "So I guess that means my father, bastard that he was, actually did you a favor in that regard. Maybe we should name the child after him."

"Absolutely not!" Sansa slapped Tyrion playfully on the arm, completely forgetting her sickness for a moment.

"What? Tywin Lannister II sounds like a noble enough name. I'm sure the very thought would make my father turn over in his grave, which is good enough for me."

"We are not naming our child after that monster," Sansa scolded, though her tone held no conviction. She knew Tyrion didn't mean it. He was just trying to shock her the same way she had tried to shock him.

"All right, all right. We won't name the child after anyone either of us has put to death. So we can't name him Tywin or Petyr or Shae. Though why we'd name a boy Shae, I don't know."

"I think that's enough," Sansa said. Tyrion's teasing had taken a decidedly dark turn, and she wasn't sure that she found it amusing anymore.

"Fine, I'll stop," Tyrion conceded, his tone instantly sobering. "If it's a boy, I have absolutely no idea what we should name it. But if it's a girl . . ." He paused as if he couldn't quite finish the thought.

"Yes?"

"If it's a girl, I'd like to name her Joanna."

Sansa was stunned silent for a moment. She hadn't expected that. She should have, of course. She'd realized a long time ago that Tyrion's mother meant a great deal to him, even though he had never known her – perhaps _because_ he had never known her. Ever since her own mother's death, Sansa had imagined that if she ever had a daughter, she would name her Catelyn, but she had already named Eddard after her father and it only seemed fair that if they did have a little girl, Tyrion should be the one to choose her name.

Sansa squeezed Tyrion's hand. "I'd like that very much."

"Would you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on her skeptically.

"I would. I think it's lovely."

Tyrion offered her a tentative smile and then turned away. He leaned his head against Sansa's shoulder and began rubbing his thumb gently against the back of her hand in small, soothing circles. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice warm and soft.

"Better."

"Is there anything you need from me? Anything at all?"

Sansa needed him to stay at Winterfell. She needed it more than she needed anything else in the world. But did she dare ask him now? She knew if she did, he would probably agree to stay, but only because they were expecting a baby and he would want to be present for the birth. Now, Sansa wished that she had asked him earlier, when she could have been more certain of his motives. She wanted him to stay, not for Eddard and not for the baby, but for her. She wanted him to stay because he loved her.

"I . . ." Sansa tried, but she just couldn't say the words. "This is fine for now. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I just want to do everything I can to help. I want to take care of you, Sansa. I want to get you through this with as little pain and suffering as possible. I know it's going to be difficult. I mean, _you_ know it's going to be difficult. I've never carried a baby or seen one born or been around many pregnant women, but whatever I can do, I will do."

"Then stay." The words were out of Sansa's mouth before she could stop them. She held her breath, staying deathly still as she fought back the tears that were threatening to fall.

Tyrion lifted his head and turned to look up at her again. There was just as much uncertainty in his eyes as there was in her own heart, and she didn't know what to say or how to feel.

"Is that . . . is that what you really want?" Tyrion asked.

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper.

"Because of the baby?"

"No, not because of the baby. Because I want you by my side. Always."

Tyrion's hand began to tremble in hers, and Sansa was surprised by his reaction. She hadn't thought her words would affect him in the least.

"I . . . I don't know what to say," Tyrion replied.

Sansa pulled her hand away, suddenly afraid that she had gone too far. "You don't have to say anything right now. Just think about it. You have some time before you have to make a decision."

"I don't need to think about it."

"Don't you?"

"No," Tyrion said. "If you want me to stay, I will stay. I will stay for as long as you want me here. And the day you decide you can no longer stand the sight of me, only then will I go, and not before."

"I don't think that day will ever come."

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, I've only been at Winterfell for a couple of months now. Trust me, the day will come when you can't stand the sight of my ugly face any more than I can. And then, you'll be happy to send me off to Casterly Rock, never to be seen again."

"No, that is never going to happen. I've waited too long for you to return to me to ever wish you away again."

"Really?" The doubt in Tyrion's voice was unmistakable.

"Really."

"Ah, well, in that case, I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for the rest of your life because I will never leave of my own accord. You have my word on that."

"But why?" Sansa asked, more than a bit surprised. "I thought you hated it here at Winterfell. I thought you wanted nothing more than to return to Casterly Rock and forget all about this place."

"I did," Tyrion answered. "But that was before."

"Before the baby."

"No, before you, Sansa. Before you."

Tyrion took her hand again, this time bringing it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss against her fevered skin. Sansa nearly sobbed at the contact, but she fought to keep her emotions under control. She didn't want Tyrion to know how much his words had affected her. She didn't want him to know how much she loved him. Not yet. Not when she didn't know how he truly felt about her.

"What . . . what do you mean?" Sansa asked, struggling to keep her voice from shaking.

Tyrion lowered her hand, gazing up into her eyes with undeniable warmth and affection. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Tell me, please. We agreed to trust each other, remember? In fact, that's all we've done for the past fortnight, trust each other."

"And love each other."

_Love._

The word startled Sansa. She didn't think she had ever heard Tyrion use it before, at least, not regarding their relationship. And while she knew he was just referring to the time they spent in bed together, she couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, he was hinting at something more.

"Is that what you call it?" Sansa asked, unwilling to let him take it back.

"What would you call it?"

"Love involves the heart. We may be man and wife, but what we do when we're alone together, that doesn't require affection."

"True. And yet, I think it's there just the same. At least, I know that I love you, Sansa. Though, as I said before, I don't expect you to believe me."

But she did believe him. She believed him because she could see the truth of it in his eyes. She believed him because she could feel it every time he touched her, every time he had ever touched her. Even back in King's Landing, he had always been kind and patient and gentle with her. He had felt an affection for her from the very beginning, and she for him, though neither one of them had known what it was at the time.

"I believe you," Sansa said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I believe you as if you'd sworn it on your mother's bones. I believe you as if Bran were standing right before us, stating it as fact. I believe you, Tyrion Lannister. I believe that you love me. I'm just sorry that it took me so long to see the truth."

Tyrion squeezed her hand, his eyes misting with tears. "Then know, Sansa Stark, that my heart and my life are yours, and I will do everything in my power to protect you and make you happy. I know that I don't deserve you. I don't deserve any of this. But you do, and I want you to have the happy life you've always dreamed of, with a husband who loves you and happy, healthy little wolves running around the yard. That's all I've ever wanted for you, Sansa. You must know that."

"There's something more though," Sansa said. "Something more that I've always wanted."

"Yes, I know," Tyrion replied, his voice thick with regret. "A husband you can love. I wish I could give you that too, but I'm afraid, you'll just have to settle for me."

Sansa shook her head. "And I used to think that you were the cleverest man alive."

"Did you?"

"I did."

"Well, then, I suppose that just proves that even you can't be right all the time. But tell me, why do you no longer think that I am so terribly clever?"

"Because you can't see what's right in front of you."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed on Sansa, searching her face. "All I see before me is my beautiful wife. If there's something more, then indeed, I can't see it."

"I love you, Tyrion Lannister. I always have, and I always will."

Tyrion stared at Sansa, not saying a single word, and for a moment, she feared she had made a dreadful mistake. She hadn't expected Tyrion to believe her any more than he had expected her to believe him. But she had hoped that, after everything they had been through together, he would finally be able to take her at her word.

"Do . . . do you mean that?" Tyrion asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

"I do."

"Because you're carrying my child. Because we're husband and wife. Because—"

But Sansa couldn't let him finish. She leaned forward, her sickness long forgotten, and kissed him soundly. When she was certain that he would keep quiet long enough for her to explain, she finally broke away. "Because you're you, Tyrion Lannister, and for no other reason. I have loved you since the very first night you shared my bed. You didn't know it at the time, but you were my Knight of Flowers. You were everything to me. I just didn't know how to tell you."

"How . . . how could you feel that way about me after what my family did to your family?"

"You're not your family, Tyrion. You're you. And I don't hold their crimes against you. If Mother and Robb hadn't been killed, if we hadn't received word of their deaths the day after—"

Tyrion held up his hand. "Don't. You don't have to say it. I understand."

"You may understand, but do you believe me? Do you believe that I love you, Tyrion?"

Tyrion exhaled a tremulous sigh, his eyes never leaving Sansa's. He searched deep into her soul, looking for the truth of her words, and she felt more vulnerable than she ever had before. But it didn't discomfit her in the least. She wanted to be vulnerable with Tyrion. She wanted him to know all of her: her truths, her secrets, her fears.

It was a long time before Tyrion answered. Finally, he nodded and said, "I believe you, Sansa. I believe, for some crazy, unknown reason, that you truly think I'm a good man and that you truly think I'm worthy of you."

"But do you believe that I love you?"

A bittersweet smile curved Tyrion's lips as he struggled to fight back the tears. "I do."

Sansa smiled brightly, so overcome with joy that she thought her heart might burst. She put her hands on either side of Tyrion's face and drew him closer, kissing him deeply. She didn't ever want to let him go. She loved him so much, and she had never been happier in all her life!

When Sansa finally pulled away, she could barely catch her breath. "I love you," she whispered, happy to finally be free to say the words. "I love you."

"And I love you. More than you'll ever know."

"Then why don't you show me?"

Tyrion's brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure? If you're not feeling well, it can wait."

"I'm sure. I feel better already. And I don't think I can wait another moment for you to show me just how much you love me."

"Well, then, how can I refuse?"

Tyrion leaned up and kissed her again, and a familiar warmth spread languidly throughout Sansa's limbs, leaving her breathless and wanting. When Tyrion finally pulled away, he helped her to her feet and onto the bed. A moment later, he joined her, taking her in his arms and loving her as he had never loved her before.


	34. Chapter 33

Author's Notes: So apparently, I don't know how to count. I originally thought this story had 34 chapters (including the prologue and epilogue), but it actually has 35. This is the last full-length chapter. The next chapter will be the epilogue.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-three

A week later, Tyrion stood in the yard beside his beloved wife as they bid farewell to Jaime and Brienne. Tyrion was sorry to see them go, but he was eager to begin his new life with Sansa. Spring was in the air, the snow was already melting, and life at Winterfell hadn't been happier since Ned Stark himself had been lord of the keep. Tyrion was looking forward to settling into domestic life with his own little family and enjoying the rest of his days in peace.

Although a week had passed since Sansa had confessed her love, Tyrion was still reeling from her declaration. After everything he had been through in his life, it was hard for him to believe that a woman like Sansa could ever love a man like him. But he knew that she did. He saw it every time their eyes met, felt it every time she touched him. She loved him with all her heart, and Tyrion – undeserving mortal that he was – would never doubt her again.

"Take care of him for me," Jaime said to Sansa as he nodded in Tyrion's direction. "I know he can be difficult. If he gives you any more trouble, just send me a raven, and I'll head straight back to Winterfell."

"I appreciate the offer," Sansa answered, "but I'm sure I can handle him. He's not quite as clever as he thinks he is, and I know his weaknesses now."

Jaime's lips quirked in a wry smile. "Yes, I'm sure you do." He took Sansa's hand and bowed over it, kissing it with the gallantry of a true knight. "Take care, my lady, until we meet again."

"And you as well, my lord. Safe journey."

Jaime let go of Sansa's hand and finally turned his attention to Tyrion. "Well, brother, I guess this is goodbye. Hopefully, this goodbye won't be as long as the last one."

Jaime bent down and pulled Tyrion into his arms, clutching him against his chest as if he couldn't quite bear to leave him. Tyrion hugged Jaime just as fiercely, knowing that it might be years before they saw each other again.

When Jaime finally pulled away, there were tears glistening in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. He stood and took a step back, allowing Sansa and Brienne to say their goodbyes.

The two women hugged like sisters, and when they broke apart, Tyrion could see that Jaime wasn't the only one who was struggling to hold back the tears.

"I wish you all the happiness in the world," Sansa said, her voice thick with emotion. "And that your baby shall be born happy and healthy."

"And I wish the same for you," Brienne replied, smiling brightly. "You must send us a raven as soon as the baby arrives."

When Sansa had first told Tyrion that she was pregnant, they had intended to keep her condition a secret until she was further along and they were certain there would be no complications. But there were no secrets at Winterfell, and within a couple of days, word of Sansa's condition had spread like wildfire throughout the keep. The only person who didn't know about the baby was Eddard. Tyrion and Sansa had just been waiting for the right time to tell him. They both knew that Eddard was going to be inconsolable after Jaime and Brienne left, and they were hoping that news of a new baby would help cheer him up once his aunt and uncle were gone.

As if on cue, Eddard came running into the yard at that very moment, followed by Arya. She looked as cold and indifferent as ever, not a hint of emotion in her eyes. She hadn't said anything about the baby yet, or the sudden change in Sansa and Tyrion's relationship, but Tyrion was sure she had her opinions and had just chosen to keep them to herself. Even after two months in her company, Tyrion was still wary of Arya Stark, but she was family, and he was slowly coming around to liking her even more than he feared her. He knew it was going to take time for things to get better between them, but now that he would be staying at Winterfell, they had all the time in the world.

"Uncle Jaime!" Eddard exclaimed as he raced headlong at his uncle.

Jaime bent down just in time to catch Eddard. He hoisted the boy up into the air and whirled him around in a circle, Eddard's little legs swinging out around them as if he were flying. Eddard laughed with delight, and Jaime smiled with pure joy. When they finally stopped spinning, Jaime lifted Eddard a little higher and settled him against his hip, holding him close.

"Did you really think we were going to leave without saying goodbye?" Jaime asked Eddard.

"Can't you take us with you?" Eddard almost whined.

"Not this time. But you'll visit someday. I'm sure we'll all meet again sooner than you think."

Eddard wrapped his arms around Jaime's neck and rested his head on his shoulder. "But I want to go now."

"I know, dear boy, I know. But you have responsibilities here at Winterfell. And I think, a very special reason to stay."

Tyrion cast a warning glance at Jaime. Jaime knew they hadn't told Eddard about the baby yet, and he was treading dangerous ground.

"What reason?" Eddard asked.

"Well, I can't tell you that. It's going to be a surprise." Jaime hugged Eddard tightly and placed a light kiss on the top of his head. "Now, it's time for us to say our farewells."

Eddard clung even more desperately to Jaime. There were tears in his eyes, but he didn't cry. He was Sansa Stark's son, after all, and the future Lord of Winterfell. Even at four-and-a-half years old, he knew how to control his emotions in public, or at least, how not to crumble under the weight of them.

Eddard kissed Jaime on the cheek and then grudgingly allowed himself to be lowered to the ground.

Once he was firmly on his feet, Brienne knelt in front of him and said, "May I have a kiss goodbye as well?"

Eddard threw his arms around her neck and buried his head against her shoulder, clearly fighting back the tears. Brienne held him close, kissing his temple and stroking his hair.

"It's all right," she said. "Your uncle's right. We'll all see each other again very soon."

Eddard pulled back and placed a quick kiss on Brienne's cheek before retreating from her embrace. Brienne stood, and Sansa stepped forward, taking Eddard's little hand in her own and drawing him away.

It was hard for Tyrion to watch Eddard suffer, but there was nothing he could do for him at that moment. Tyrion couldn't stop Jaime and Brienne from leaving, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Be careful," Tyrion said to Jaime. "And send me a raven as soon as you arrive at the Rock. I want to know that you're safe the instant you get there."

"I will. And you keep them safe," Jaime said with a nod toward Tyrion's little family. "And rest assured, if you do anything to hurt your dear wife again, I shall have no choice but to return to Winterfell and put an end to you myself."

Tyrion laughed. "I think I've more than learned my lesson. You have nothing to worry about. I swear it."

Jaime's lips curved in a crooked half smile, and Tyrion knew his brother only half believe him.

There was another round of goodbyes before Jaime and Brienne finally mounted their horses and set off on their journey. As soon as they passed through the East Gate, Eddard let go of Sansa's hand and rushed to the edge of the yard so that he could watch them ride off into the distance.

"Do you think we should tell him now?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion turned to look up at her, finding her gaze still focused on Eddard.

"I think," Tyrion replied, "if you don't want him to cry himself to sleep tonight, and every night for the next moonturn, that might be a good idea."

Sansa reached down and slipped her hand into Tyrion's, squeezing it gently. "I'll ask him to come inside," she said, finally turning to look down at Tyrion. "Wait for us in the library, all right?"

"Of course, my lady." And then, because he simply couldn't help himself, Tyrion lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

A soft blush tinted Sansa's cheeks, and she offered Tyrion a secret smile before heading off to fetch their son. Tyrion turned back toward the keep, intent on heading straight to the library, but found Arya blocking his path.

"Lady Arya," he said with a slight bow of his head.

"Lord Tyrion."

"My lady wife has commanded me to wait for her in the library. Would you care to accompany me?"

But Arya didn't answer. She simply turned on her heel and waited for Tyrion to move up beside her. Once he was in position, they began walking back to the keep, side by side.

Arya remained deathly quiet as they crossed the yard. She didn't speak again until they were inside the castle walls, alone in a deserted corridor. "I hope you intend to heed Jaime's warning," Arya said.

"And what warning was that?"

"That he'd kill you if you did anything to hurt my sister."

Tyrion almost laughed, but he fought back the urge, afraid to do anything that might offend Arya. Instead, he answered in a calm, steady voice, "I would never take the warning of a sworn knight lightly. I will never do anything to hurt her. Never again."

"Good. Because although Lord Jaime will be hundreds of miles away, on the other side of Westeros, I will be right here. And I will not hesitate to mete out a fitting punishment if you should ever hurt her again."

Tyrion knew he should be terrified by Arya's words, but he wasn't. He had no intention of ever hurting Sansa again, and he was certain, no matter what happened between them in the future, Sansa would never allow any harm to come to him either.

"Understood," Tyrion said. "You needn't worry. I have no desire to cross you, my lady. You are far more adept with a sword than I will ever be. You could best me in every kind of combat, and I have no desire to find myself on the pointy end of your _needle._"

Tyrion glanced up at Arya and caught the hint of a smile on her lips. It was fleeting, but it was there. And suddenly, Tyrion had the distinct feeling that Arya liked him just a little bit more than she was willing to admit.

When they finally reached the library, Tyrion stopped just outside the door and turned to look up at Arya. "Well, here we are," he said. "Would you like to wait with me? You can be here when Sansa and I tell Eddard the good news."

"I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to tend to," Arya replied. "Besides, this is something that you and Sansa should do alone. I will see you both at luncheon."

Arya turned away then, and Tyrion just stood there watching her go. She was such an odd creature, and he still didn't have her completely figured out. She always projected an air of cold indifference, and yet, deep down, Tyrion knew that she loved her family more than anything and would do everything she could to protect them. He had a great deal of respect for Arya Stark, and he hoped that, someday, she would be able to respect him too.

As soon as Arya disappeared around the corner, Tyrion pushed the library door open, the familiar squeak of the hinges a balm to his soul. He loved the library more than any other room in the keep – well, except for the bedchamber he now permanently shared with Sansa. It was warm and cozy and felt like home.

Tyrion stepped into the room, leaving the door ajar behind him. He discarded his cloak and settled into one of the two chairs in the center of the room to wait for Sansa and Eddard. A fire had already been lit in the hearth by unseen hands, and Tyrion allowed himself to enjoy its warmth. He was going to miss Jaime more than words could ever express, but he knew he'd see his brother again someday. He knew it deep in his bones. Once the baby was born, once it was old enough and strong enough to travel, they would all go to Casterly Rock as a family, and Tyrion would finally be able to show Eddard his ancestral home.

A few minutes later, Tyrion was roused from his musings by the familiar patter of tiny feet running down the corridor. He turned toward the open door just in time to see Eddard racing through it. Eddard headed straight for Tyrion, climbing up into his lap without an invitation, but Tyrion didn't mind. He liked having Eddard close. He liked holding him and being near him. It was a precious gift that he still wasn't quite sure he deserved.

Eddard leaned his head against Tyrion's chest, clutching his doublet plaintively. His whole body was trembling, and Tyrion could tell that he was trying to fight back the tears. Although Eddard wanted to be a strong little lordling, the loss of his uncle was nearly too much for him to bear.

Tyrion wrapped his arms around his son and looked up at Sansa. She closed the door behind her and moved farther into the room, perching herself on the edge of the chair beside them so that she could lean forward and take Eddard's hand. But the moment she touched him, he pulled away, burying his head in Tyrion's chest and bursting into tears.

"It's all right," Sansa cooed softly. "It will be all right."

Tyrion gently stroked Eddard's hair, offering him what little comfort he could. He knew the boy needed to work through his grief, and he didn't want to rush him, not when he himself was feeling the same deep-seated loss.

Eddard sniffled feebly. "I . . . I didn't want them to go."

"I know," Tyrion said, "neither did I. But your Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne have their own castle to keep watch over and their own duties to tend to. They couldn't stay here forever. But it's going to be all right. You'll see them again someday."

"But when?"

Tyrion glanced up at Sansa, his eyes imploring her to finally let him tell Eddard about the baby. She offered Tyrion a small nod and a reassuring smile, and he knew it was safe to continue.

Tyrion kissed the top of Eddard's head in an affectionate gesture. When he pulled back, he said, "You'll see them again when things are more settled here. After your little brother or sister is born and he or she is old enough to make the journey."

Eddard stilled in Tyrion's arms, and for a moment, Tyrion wasn't sure that Eddard had understood his meaning. But then, Eddard looked up at Tyrion, his eyes wide and full of hope. "Do you mean it?" he asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Yes. Come spring, there will be a new baby at Winterfell, a little brother or a little sister just for you. And you'll need to be here to help take care of it. We can't have you running off to Casterly Rock to chase after your Uncle Jaime," Tyrion said with mock sternness. "You must stay here and do your duty as the future Lord of Winterfell. Is that understood?"

Eddard nodded his head vigorously, as if he feared that Tyrion might doubt his conviction.

"Good. Then no more tears, all right? There's nothing to cry about. You're going to have what you've always wanted, so enough of that now."

Eddard swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand and blinked the tears from his eyes. In an instant, he was a different child. The tears were gone, and there was a distinct sense of pride and determination in his eyes that hadn't been there just a moment before.

"Is it going to be a dwarf?" Eddard asked, his eyes lighting up at the possibility.

Tyrion dreaded the thought, but he couldn't admit that to Eddard. "That I don't know," he replied. "That is for the gods to decide. We'll just have to wait and see."

Eddard leaned up and kissed Tyrion on the cheek. Then, he turned and reached out to Sansa, silently entreating her to take him on her lap. She pulled Eddard into her arms, and once he was settled, he laid his head against her breast and put his hand on her belly. "Is this where the baby is?" he asked, clearly knowing far more about where babies came from than Tyrion had expected.

Sansa placed her hand over Eddard's, her eyes focused on his inquisitive little face. "Yes, it is. Though it's going to take a long time for it to grow. Many, many moonturns. And we'll have to pray that the baby is born healthy and without issue. Not all babies make it out of the womb alive and well, so we have to pray that this one does."

"I'll do everything I can to protect him," Eddard said, ever the valiant would-be knight.

"Or her," Tyrion corrected, leaning forward so that he could be closer to his beautiful little family.

Eddard wrinkled up his nose in distaste. "It doesn't have to be a girl, does it?"

"It might be a girl," Tyrion answered. "A girl who isn't even a dwarf. You must be prepared for any eventuality. And you must be prepared to love her, even if she isn't a boy."

Eddard was thoughtful for a moment. Tyrion could tell that he hated the idea of having a little sister but was trying to work his way round to it. "Would she be like Aunt Arya?" Eddard finally asked.

"Oh, good gods," Sansa exclaimed, "I hope not!"

Tyrion laughed. "She just might be."

"I think I would like that very much then," Eddard said.

Eddard snuggled closer to his mother and placed a small kiss against her belly. It was the sweetest thing Tyrion had ever seen, and his heart suddenly swelled with love for his wife and children.

Tyrion quickly pulled his eyes away from Eddard, afraid that his emotions would get the better of him. When he looked up at Sansa, he was surprised to find her watching him, her gaze filled with a tenderness that he knew was reserved for him alone.

Sansa offered Tyrion a shy smile, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and kiss her. But Eddard was still on her lap, and the effort would have been far too awkward to be worthwhile. So instead, Tyrion contented himself with staring into her eyes, silently conveying his love for her from afar.

When Sansa finally broke his gaze, she turned her attention back to Eddard, who was idly tracing small patterns against her stomach, no doubt imagining the trouble he and his brother – or sister – would get into as soon as the child arrived.

"Eddard," Sansa said gently, stroking his hair and gazing down at him with unabashed affection, "why don't you go find your Aunt Arya and tell her the good news?"

Eddard instantly sat up, lifting his head so he could look up at his mother. "Can I?"

"Yes, of course you can."

Eddard was out of her lap and on the floor before Sansa could even finish answering him. He raced to the door in search of his favorite aunt, eager to tell her the news. He was so eager, in fact, that he forgot to close the door behind him as he raced out into the hallway.

As soon as they were alone together, Sansa slipped from her chair and knelt in front of Tyrion so that they were nearly at an even height. She took both his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. "I don't think I've ever seen him so happy."

"I don't think _I've _ever been so happy."

Sansa leaned forward, kissing him softly, and Tyrion's entire body responded – his heart and other, less romantic parts. He wanted her again, even though he had made love to her just that morning. He always wanted her, every hour of every day.

When Sansa finally pulled away, she glanced over her shoulder at the open door behind her, and it was then that Tyrion realized that he wasn't the only one who wanted more than just a kiss.

Sansa let go of Tyrion's hands and rose from the floor. She crossed the room and closed the door, returning to him without a single word. By the time she reached him, his cock was painfully hard, and he wondered what she intended to do about it. So far, they had only been intimate while alone together in their bedchamber. This was new territory, and Tyrion was more than a little curious to see exactly where they were headed.

Sansa knelt on the floor again, her eyes never leaving Tyrion's. With practiced dexterity, she began untying his breeches, and he leaned back in his chair, giving her more room to work. When his cock was finally free, she ran her fingers over it with a softness that made his whole body quiver.

A knowing smile quirked Sansa's lips, and Tyrion could tell that she was enjoying herself immensely. In the past few weeks, she'd become something of an expert at pleasuring him, and he knew that whatever she had planned now would be quite worth his time and patience.

Sansa leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against Tyrion's lips before pulling back and lowering her head to his cock. He inhaled a sharp breath the instant she made contact, his fingers threading through her hair.

Sansa moved her mouth over him with exquisite grace. She kissed and licked and teased until he was squirming beneath her, begging for mercy. Finally, she trailed a line of hungry wet kisses up one side of his shaft and down the other, swirling her tongue against the tip, before finally taking his full length deep into her mouth.

Tyrion nearly lost himself in the feel of Sansa's heat surrounding him. He was so close that he didn't know how much longer he could last. But suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps heading down the corridor and his whole body flushed cold.

Before he could say a single word, someone stopped at the library door, and Tyrion looked down at Sansa, putting his hands on her shoulders and warning her to stop.

Sansa raised her head and looked up at him, finally relinquishing his cock, and Tyrion was surprised to see that there wasn't the slightest hint of fear in her eyes. It wasn't until their unwelcome visitor tried to push open the door and found it locked that Tyrion understood why she wasn't the least bit alarmed.

A momentary wave of relief washed over him, but it didn't last long. A second later, there was a knock at the door and Tyrion's heart lodged in his throat.

Sansa gave Tyrion a pointed look, and he knew she wanted him to answer whoever was at the door.

"Who . . . who is it?" he asked in a hoarse voice, sounding very much like a man who was up to no good.

"Maester Wolkan, my lord. I'm looking for Lord Eddard. It is time for his lessons. Have you seen him?"

A wicked gleam sparkled in Sansa's eyes, and suddenly, she was lowering her head again, taking Tyrion into her mouth.

Tyrion pushed himself up farther in the chair, trying to gain some semblance of control over his own body. It took every last bit of resolve he possessed to answer Maester Wolkan without sounding like his wife was sucking his cock. "I . . . I think he's with Lady Arya," Tyrion said, his voice far louder than it should have been.

"Very good, my lord."

And then, Maester Wolkan's footsteps began to fade down the corridor and Tyrion slumped back against the chair with a strangled sigh.

Sansa lifted her head and laughed, clearly quite pleased with herself.

"That wasn't fair," Tyrion snapped, his tone harsher than he'd intended.

"I think it was fair. After all, nothing terrible happened," Sansa said, resting her palms against his thighs and slowly gliding them upward. "Nothing at all."

"What if he had demanded to be let in? What if he had used a key? I'm sure that man has a key to every chamber in the keep."

Sansa shook her head, sliding her hands back down toward Tyrion's knees, sending shivers of pleasure straight to his throbbing cock.

"Well, what if it had been your sister?" he asked. "Or Eddard?"

"Have you always been such an old woman, my lord? I thought you were more adventurous than that."

"I am adventurous," Tyrion argued, his pride suddenly wounded. "I am quite adventurous. But I don't want your reputation maligned, my lady. Everyone knows that I'm a drunken, lust filled beast. But you? You're a different creature altogether, and I would never want anyone to question your character."

"Am I?" Sansa asked, lowering her head again but keeping her eyes locked with Tyrion's. She placed a gentle kiss on the tip of his shaft, looking very much like the most wanton creature he had ever seen.

"You are." Tyrion nearly choked on the words. "You are everything that is good and pure and sweet in this world. And I don't want your reputation to ever suffer because of me."

"Half the kingdom already thinks that I'm an adulteress. Surely, my reputation could not suffer much more than that."

Tyrion opened his mouth to reply, but Sansa didn't wait for an answer. She broke his gaze and kissed the tip of his cock again. Then, she lowered her head and took him full into her mouth.

Tyrion was overwhelmed by the contact. In an instant, he was once again dangerously close to coming, and he didn't try to fight it. It was obvious that Sansa knew exactly what she wanted from him and that she was more than determined to take it.

But just as Tyrion was about to lose himself inside her, Sansa suddenly pulled away, causing his whole body to tremble with unfulfilled desire.

Sansa looked up at him with determination in her eyes, then stood to her full height. Tyrion feared she was going to leave him like that – his cock throbbing, his body yearning for release – but she didn't. Much to Tyrion's surprise, she hiked up her skirts and climbed on top of him, settling her knees on either side of his thighs and slowly lowering herself down onto his cock.

Tyrion gasped as Sansa's heat enveloped him. He didn't know how he was going to last long enough to give her what she wanted. He was already on the brink, and he knew, the moment she moved her hips, he'd come whether he wanted to or not.

But Sansa stayed steady on his lap, gently leaning forward and putting her hands on either side of his face. She kissed him softly, deeply, her tongue exploring the depths of his mouth with languid strokes. Tyrion could taste his own arousal on her lips, and it stoked the fires already burning in his blood. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and drew her even closer, desperate to have his fill of her.

Tyrion's cock throbbed inside her warmth, and he prayed to all the gods, old and new, that he would last just a bit longer. He had always been a master of self-control, but at that moment, he didn't feel like the master of anything. Sansa was in complete command of his body, and he was just there to serve her.

Without breaking the kiss, Sansa slowly began to move her hips, riding Tyrion with a gentle, easy rhythm that coaxed him just to the edge but not beyond. She took her time kissing him, touching him, taking her own pleasure, and Tyrion was amazed by just how much she'd learned in the short time they'd been together. Sansa knew exactly what she was doing, and Tyrion was simply in awe of her.

Sansa kissed him until they were both breathless. Then, she leaned back on her knees, just far enough to give herself better leverage, and began riding him in earnest. She moved her hips in a fevered rhythm as ancient as time itself, and Tyrion dug his fingers into her waist, holding her as steady as he could. He stared up at her in sheer wonderment, captivated by the sight of her taking her pleasure. Soft sounds of ecstasy escaped her lips as she moved above him, and every last one made his cock throb with renewed need.

Tyrion closed his eyes, his own desire suddenly overpowering him. He fought the urge to thrust his hips upward, tensing all his muscles in a desperate attempt to keep his body under control. Above him, he felt Sansa change position again, this time, gripping the back of the chair just behind his head. She rode him harder, desperately striving for release, until suddenly, her whole body shuddered with pleasure, her inner walls pulsing around his aching cock.

Tyrion couldn't hold himself back a second longer. He thrust his hips against her at a frantic pace and came hard inside her, burying his head against her shoulder to muffle his cries of pleasure.

When Tyrion was finally spent, he slumped back against the chair, his eyes closed, his body trembling. He could still feel Sansa surrounding him, and he didn't ever want to let her go. He rested his arms lightly around her waist, content to remain exactly as they were for all eternity.

Tyrion didn't know how long they stayed that way, but eventually, Sansa pulled back. She lowered her head, resting her forehead against his, and for a moment, they just sat there, both trying to catch their breath. Tyrion could feel the warm flutter of Sansa's breath against his lips, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. But he was too exhausted to move, and he didn't want to break the spell they were both under.

And then, Sansa did something thoroughly unexpected. She laughed.

Tyrion opened his eyes and stared up at Sansa in utter bewilderment. She sat back on her heels, lifting herself off his cock, and covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle her amusement. Her cheeks were a fetching shade of pink, and Tyrion could tell that she was slightly embarrassed.

"Dare I ask what is so funny, my lady?"

It took Sansa a moment to suppress her laughter before she was finally able to speak. "I don't know what just came over me. What if Maester Wolkan had walked in?"

"That's exactly what I said!" Tyrion exclaimed, annoyed that she was only now willing to listen to reason.

Sansa shook her head. "That was very wicked of us, wasn't it?"

"It was indeed. I doubt the spirits haunting the crypts will look kindly on this kind of behavior from the lady of the keep. After all, it's not behavior befitting a Stark, is it?"

Sansa's lips curved in a mischievous smile. "I think you're a very bad influence on me, Tyrion Lannister."

"Oh, I know I am," he replied, not an ounce of shame in his voice. "And I don't think you'd want me any other way, would you?"

Sansa shook her head again. "No. I want you just as you are." She leaned forward and kissed him with a sweetness that made Tyrion's heart ache. Then, she slid off his lap and settled onto the cushion next to him, snuggling up against his side. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.

Tyrion entwined his fingers with Sansa's and kissed her hair before leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. He inhaled deeply, drawing in her scent. She smelled like vanilla and lemon cakes and just a hint of sex, and it made Tyrion feel like he was finally home.

"I love you, Sansa Stark," Tyrion said, the words leaving his throat without conscious thought. "I've never loved anyone the way that I love you."

"I know," Sansa replied, her words so matter-of-fact that Tyrion was almost insulted. But then, she added, "And I've never loved anyone the way that I love you. I love you more than I ever imagined possible, more than any dashing knight or handsome prince."

Tyrion pulled away then, just far enough to look down at Sansa. She lifted her head from his shoulder and stared up at him, their eyes meeting for one long moment before he leaned down and kissed her again.

Tyrion had never been happier in all his life, and he knew he would love Sansa Stark until the day he died. He didn't deserve her, of course. Or Eddard, or Winterfell, or the new baby. But they were his now, all of them, and he would do everything in his power to protect them. After five long years of wandering, Tyrion Lannister was finally home, and he would never leave his family again.


	35. Epilogue

Author's Note: As this story comes to a close, I just want to thank all of you for reading and for all your support and encouragement. This has been a long journey, and it's a little hard for me to believe that it's actually over, but here we are, finally at the end. I have more Sanrion stories planned for the future, so if you'd like to be notified when I post, please feel free to follow me.

The original draft of this story included alternate versions of several chapters, including a different scene in which Sansa and Tyrion finally confess their love for each other. I have posted that alternate content as a separate story on Archive of Our Own titled "The Bastard of Winterfell – Alternate Chapters."

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Epilogue

The wheelhouse lurched along the rocky terrain, creaking woefully as it struggled to navigate the bumpy road. Sansa held baby Joanna tighter in her arms, hoping that the dreadful noise wouldn't wake her. It was early evening and the children were already fast asleep, but the wheelhouse rolled on, hoping to reach Casterly Rock within the hour. Outside the open window, Sansa watched the landscape passing by, all in shadow. There was a half-moon overhead, and it provided just enough light to silhouette the distant mountains against the dark sky.

The Westerlands were so different from the north, more rugged, less snowy. Now that spring was in full bloom, everything looked more verdant, and even at night, Sansa could see hints of green dotting the landscape.

Sansa glanced up at Tyrion. He was huddled on the seat opposite her, reading by lantern light, Eddard fast asleep at his side. The boy had grown so much since Tyrion had returned two years earlier. He was gaining height daily, and he was a bit more serious now, though he still loved to talk about dragons and play at slaying White Walkers. He had been disappointed that Joanna hadn't been born a boy or a dwarf, but Sansa was certain he would feel differently once his sister was old enough to follow him around the yard and go on adventures with him. She was a little over a year old now, just beginning to exert her own personality and explore the world.

Joanna was a happy baby, not fussy or temperamental in the least. She had been born with Sansa's fiery hair, but with her father's dark eyes. Although she and Eddard had decidedly different coloring, their features were strikingly similar, and it was clear to anyone who looked at them that they were full-blooded siblings. Now that Tyrion had been at Winterfell for a full two years, the rumors about Eddard's paternity had started to fade. No one called him the Bastard of Winterfell anymore, for seeing the two of them together, there was just no denying that Eddard Lannister was his father's son.

"Do you see something that pleases you, wife?" Tyrion asked, his eyes still on his book.

"Yes," Sansa replied. "Something that pleases me very much indeed."

Tyrion grinned. He closed the book and put it on the seat beside him, finally looking up at her. "I'm sorry we've been confined to such close quarters for so long with the children. I can assure you, were they not here, you would have spent this entire journey on your back."

"Or you on yours."

Tyrion laughed. "Well, I certainly wouldn't have objected to that."

Sansa blushed, though she knew there was no reason to be embarrassed. There was no shame between her and Tyrion anymore, no secrets, no half-truths, nothing. They were always open and honest with each other, always eager to share and eager to please. Sansa couldn't have imagined a happier match or loving anyone more.

Tyrion's expression turned serious for a moment. "How is she?" he asked, nodding toward the sleeping babe in Sansa's arms.

"Fine," she answered. "She's handled this trip better than Eddard."

"Well, that's just because he constantly wants to be out there, riding alongside the wheelhouse with Arya. If he had his way, he'd be camping on the ground with her every night too."

Sansa laughed. It was quite true. Eddard still considered himself a fearless adventurer, and he still followed Arya around as if she were Azor Ahai come back to life.

"Yes, well," Sansa said, "he has no choice in the matter. I can only imagine how difficult he's going to be to handle once he's of age."

"Do you think he'll be more like your brother Robb or more like your cousin Jon?"

"More like his father, I suspect. Unruly, temperamental, insufferable."

"Ah, you flatter me, my lady. Such high praise indeed."

The hint of a smile pulled at Sansa's lips. Although everything she had said about him was true, it had all been said with love. She loved Tyrion Lannister just as he was, and she wouldn't want him any other way.

"Well, you've certainly earned it," Sansa replied.

Tyrion chuckled, though the sound ended on a sigh. Sansa could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to cross the space between them and kiss her, but there was still a slumbering child at his side and a sleeping babe in her arms.

"I know how the baby is," Tyrion said, his voice turning serious again, "but how are you, my love?"

"Well enough, but I'll be more than happy when this rolling inn finally comes to a stop and I can sleep in a real bed again. I can only imagine what the trip back is going to be like. Perhaps we should stay at Casterly Rock for the next seven months, until the baby is born, and then go back."

Tyrion shrugged. "I have no objection to that, but then we'll be traveling with a screaming infant for weeks on end, and I doubt either one of us will enjoy that very much."

Tyrion had a good point. When Sansa had first learned that she was pregnant again, they had made the decision to visit Casterly Rock straight away, afraid that if they waited any longer, they might never make the trip. It was one thing to cart two children across the continent to visit their aunt and uncle. It was another thing entirely to make the trip with three children, one of them a newborn.

Even so, Sansa was already regretting their decision to travel. She'd spent one too many mornings being sick inside the wheelhouse, and she was very much looking forward to their journey's end.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have made the trip in the first place," Sansa said. "Perhaps Jaime and Brienne should have visited us instead. After all, I'm the one who's with child again."

"Yes, but they've already got three children of their own, and I can't imagine it would be an easy journey for them either. Besides, they've already made the trip once, and now, it's our turn."

A few months before Joanna had been born, Brienne had given birth to twin boys, Selwyn and Renly. A little over a year later, she had welcomed a baby girl named for the mother she had never known.

"I promise you, Sansa," Tyrion said, "once we reach the Rock, you won't regret having made the trip. You'll be happy that Eddard and I convinced you to come."

Tyrion spoke with the pride of a man who loved his home almost as much as he loved his family. Even though he would never be Lord of Casterly Rock, it was his ancestral home, and Sansa knew it meant the world to him.

"I'm already glad that you convinced me to come," she said, moved by the emotion she saw in his eyes. "I know this makes you happy, and that's all that matters to me. I want you to be happy, Tyrion."

"I am happy, and I have you to thank for it. If it wasn't for you, Sansa, I wouldn't have anything. I'd be living in a hovel somewhere, all alone, feeling sorry for myself and drinking myself to death. You saved me from that, and not a day goes by that I don't thank the gods for you."

Sansa pulled her eyes away from Tyrion and glanced at Eddard. He was still sound asleep, and there was no way for Tyrion to extricate himself from the boy's embrace. So she turned her attention to Joanna, the babe still slumbering soundly in her arms. Sansa knew that if she was careful, she could put Joanna down in her little cradle without waking her. Gently, oh so very gently, Sansa lowered the baby into the tiny bed between the seats and held her breath until she was certain she had not woken her.

Sansa looked up at Tyrion again. He picked up his book and placed it on his lap, making room for her next to him. Then, he held out his hand to her, and she quietly slipped onto the empty seat beside him.

Eddard stirred but didn't wake, and Sansa exhaled in relief. She wrapped her fingers around Tyrion's, squeezing gently, just thankful to feel his hand in hers. He looked up at her then, so much love and warmth in his eyes that she thought her heart might burst.

"You're not the only one who's thankful," Sansa said softly, the close quarters making the moment feel wonderfully intimate. "When we were first wed, I could never have imagined that our life together would turn out like this, but I'm happy that it did. I don't think I could have ever found a man better suited to me."

"Oh, I'm sure you could have. Someone dashing and brave."

"You're quite dashing yourself, my lord," Sansa said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "And quite brave. After all, you've lived with Arya for two years now. Surely, that takes a great deal of bravery."

"Yes, well, when you put it that way, I certainly can't argue."

"My father once promised to find me a man who was brave and gentle and strong. And although I don't think he would have ever considered the match himself, I'm sure if he could see us now, he would agree that my husband is all of those things and more."

Tyrion's breath hitched in his throat. "You . . . you really believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. You're everything I've ever wanted, Tyrion Lannister. Braver than any knight, more dashing than any prince. And I couldn't love you more if you were Ser Loras Tyrell himself."

Tyrion laughed, and so did Sansa.

"It's a good thing I know you're joking," he said.

"Who said I was joking?"

"You'd better be joking, or I may have to leave you on the side of the road before we ever reach Casterly Rock."

Sansa laughed again. "All right, I was joking. Are you happy now?"

"Yes. Always."

Sansa leaned into Tyrion, closing the distance between them and kissing him softly. When she pulled away, she rested her head against his shoulder and stared out the window again, watching the scenery pass by. Tyrion squeezed her hand but didn't let it go. He settled in beside her and kissed the top of her head, making her feel safe and warm and loved.

Sansa smiled to herself. It was hard to believe just how far they'd come since the day Tyrion had first told her that she was going to be his bride. At the time, she had been horrified by the idea, but now, there wasn't another man in all the world that she could have loved more. Tyrion Lannister was everything Sansa had ever wanted. He was her knight in shining armor, her charming prince, her dream lover. And she would love him all of her days.


End file.
